


the life that, here, awaits

by ghostbunny



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, Dragon Age II - Act 2, Eventual Fluff, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, references to past abuse, references to slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25127560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostbunny/pseuds/ghostbunny
Summary: Hawke has been playing mediator between Anders and Fenris for practically as long as they've known each other. Her attempts to convince the two to sort out their differences have never been met with anything besides scorn. Even after nearly three years, that hasn't exactly changed. Yet, there has been something between them lately. Neither of them might want to admit to it but whatever it is, it's there and it's getting harder to ignore.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Comments: 107
Kudos: 112





	1. Fenris

**Author's Note:**

> The story title is from the Joanna Newsom song [In California](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qukojXEK2GI).  
> This is based on couple of prompt fills that I posted on tumblr a little while back. They were a both a bit on the angsty side (okay, one of them was VERY angsty) and of course that left me wanting to fill in the gaps and make it all better. And so here we have my very first Fenders fic. I hope you'll enjoy it!  
> This first chapter is set towards the end of the three year time skip before Act 2. Comments are very welcome. I'd love to hear your thoughts!  
> 

It’s a good night for camping. The day has been spent hiking the length of the Wounded Coast, attending to several jobs Hawke had lined up there. It had been hard work under the ruthless summer sun, with barely even a breeze off the Waking Sea to offer any relief from the heat. So it was with immense pleasure that the group had decided to call it a day and set up camp on the beach. The tents barely up before Hawke, Merrill and Isabela began to strip their armour and, laughing among themselves, made a mad dash for the sea. 

They’d invited Fenris to join them, of course, but he’d declined, uncomfortable with the thought of removing his armour and making himself vulnerable in more ways than one. But he allows himself a small smile as he watches them laughing and splashing among the gentle waves. It’s rare that they come out here and see the sea so calm. Now the last hour’s worth of golden sunlight reflects off the water, disturbed only by the three women cooling off after a hard day’s work. Fenris lets himself be briefly distracted from his task of building a fire so that they might have something to eat once the others have finished their bathing. He has grown comfortable enough with his companions to understand they mean nothing by leaving him behind, and it is only because he wants to eat that he feels he must be the one to ready the means to do so. But even left to do the work while the others play, it’s difficult not to be affected by the sudden lift in mood among the party since they stopped to make their camp. 

Or it had been until Anders appears with a stack of firewood and a mood like the kind of thundercloud they can probably expect in the next few days when the warm weather finally breaks. Fenris tenses, ready for some sort of irritable comment that will sour the atmosphere of what had started as a pleasant evening. But Anders dumps the wood without saying a word and simply turns to head out and gather more. Fenris is willing to put it down to the heat, which he can only assume is stifling under that ridiculous coat Anders is still wearing. Or perhaps it’s due to the two of them being left to work while the three women relax in the water, and Varric simply sits to the side sipping occasionally on the flask he keeps in his coat, which is currently draped over the log on which he sits. He shrugs it off, content to ignore the mage for as long as the mage ignores him.

But even later, once the fire is going and the wood gathered and Isabela, Merrill and Hawke returned from the sea to dry off at the camp while they all partake in the simple supper Fenris has prepared, it’s clear Anders’ mood hasn’t improved. He’s shucked off the heavy layers of his coat and left them draped over a boulder. And as he sits, staring into his untouched bowl with a look that can only be described as morose, Fenris thinks that his earlier guess to the reason behind the mage’s mood may have been off. Among the rest of the group, spirits are high and heighten further as the contents of Varric’s flask are shared around to each of them. When it gets to Anders, he declines. That’s not unusual in itself but when his quietness prompts a few inquiries from the others as to what might be troubling him, the questions are shrugged off and avoided. 

The others turn back to their own conversations, not letting Anders’ sullenness distract them for long. But Fenris has a direct line of sight from where he sits across the fire from the mage and he can’t help but wonder what it is that he’s keeping to himself. A large part of him wants to ignore it, of course. What business is it of his what goes on in the mage’s head? If this mood spares him an evening of having to listen to any inane prattle about the so-called rights of those who would not hesitate to assert their dominance over people like him if given the slightest room to do so, then he should be pleased. He doesn’t know why it bothers him.

Eventually, Anders moves away from the group on the pretence of gathering more wood for the fire. He takes his staff and meanders off along the beach, occasionally stopping to gather the odd piece of driftwood, but otherwise looking less determined and more like someone who just wants a little more room to sulk. Fenris can just about make him out, standing a short way off from the water’s edge and staring out into the darkening sea beyond. 

Fenris doesn’t know what exactly it is that makes him do it. But the others barely seem to have noticed. Their conversation is getting rowdier. Hawke is talking loudly, showing off for her friends and glancing frequently towards Merrill, as she gazes back at her, starry-eyed and visibly tipsy. And off in the distance, Anders makes a pitiful silhouette against the moonlight reflected off the sea. Someone should check on him and his drunken companions are clearly in no state to do so. 

Fenris has had a fair few sips of the whiskey himself, so perhaps that’s it. He can’t say he feels drunk but it certainly seems like the only likely explanation for why he gets to his feet and starts making his way down the beach towards the mage. 

He remembers a conversation he’d had with Hawke recently, regarding Anders. “ _The way I see it,”_ she’d said, “ _you’re both good people who just got off on the wrong foot. I mean, think about it, you’ve known each other for, what? Two, or nearly three years now? And I’d say he’s done more to help you at this point than he ever has to harm you. If you just gave each other a chance you might find you have more in common than you realise. Maybe you could even be friends.”_ Fenris had scoffed at the idea and wondered if she’d given Anders the same speech, for the animosity between them was far from one-sided. _“Yes!”_ Hawke had cried and thrown her hands in the air, accusing Fenris and Anders of being each as stubborn as the other. 

Now, he supposes, it could be said that he’s stubbornly trying to prove her wrong. 

Not that he’d ever admit to it. 

Anders, clearly lost in thought, is startled by Fenris’ approach but he manages to keep from dropping the small bundle of driftwood tucked against his chest, so that’s something at least. Fenris raises an eyebrow, wondering how the mage could be so careless as to let his guard down out here on his own. It wouldn’t be the first time they encountered bandits or raiders while camping out on the coast.

“What?” says Anders. “Did you need more…” He looks down at the wood in his arms as though only just realising how little he’s actually gathered. 

“I merely came to see what was taking you so long,” Fenris says, not exactly truthfully. 

Anders gives him a doubtful look. “Don’t tell me you were worried. Did Hawke send you out here to check on me?” 

“Perhaps,” says Fenris and he realises that the vagueness of the answer doesn’t exactly make it less dishonest but finds it preferable to admitting his… he’s not sure, exactly. Curiosity? Concern? Surely not. 

“Why would she send you?” Anders asks sullenly.

Fenris answers only with a noncommittal shrug, turning to look out at the sea. He’s not sure Anders cares enough to spot the lie but it’s still more comfortable than facing him head-on. The sea laps slowly against the shore. The waters so calm they barely make a sound as the hypnotic rhythm of the movement draws him in. It’s difficult to feel anything but peaceful out here on this warm night, with the moon bright and full above them. It’s a rare feeling and Fenris is struck by the sudden thought that he’s come a long way over the past five years. He has a long way still to go, as he has made no progress as of yet in striking back at his former master. But it’s nice to enjoy these moments all the same. To feel that he’s at last gaining some small sense of what he should be fighting for. He wishes it were a feeling he was better at holding on to. It all becomes rather more daunting when he allows himself to remember everything he has yet to accomplish. But just for this moment, it feels strangely easy to simply let it be. 

It is not a sentiment the mage seems to share. When Fenris turns to look, he’s gone back to frowning down at the slowly lapping tide. His fair eyebrows are drawn together over eyes that appear darker than usual in the low light. Fenris tries to ignore the realisation that he's apparently paid enough attention to the mage’s eyes before now to compare them. He mentally shrugs it off. Anders is a handsome man. It’s not as though Fenris can help but notice that. 

Perhaps he simply wants to change the direction of his thoughts but he finds himself asking. “What is it?”

Anders looks up, turning his frown upon Fenris. “What?”

Fenris shrugs. “You’ve barely uttered a word since we made camp. It’s clearly not nothing.”

Anders just looks confused. Fenris supposes he can’t blame him. “No offence, Fenris. But why would I talk to you? We’re not exactly friends.”

The response is so predictable that Fenris finds he can hardly see the point in taking offence. But he surprises even himself with what he says next. “Hawke seems to think that’s something that should change.”

Anders raises his eyebrows. “And is that something the two of you agree upon?”

Fenris doesn’t answer. 

Anders rolls his eyes. “That’s what I thought. So I take it you received the same speech I did.”

“So it would seem.”

“I can’t imagine it went down well with you. What did you tell her? Go on, you can tell me. Maker knows you’ve made no secret of your dislike for me or people like me in the past.”

Fenris stares back out at the sea, at the silver moonlight rippling atop the dark waves, and tries to recapture some of that calm he’d felt a moment ago. It works a little, dulling his frustration with the mage. But still, he feels he should have known better. Talking to Anders himself was always going to be impossible.

“I told her that it goes both ways.”

He hears a soft clatter and turns to see that Anders has set down his bundle of firewood upon the sand and is settling himself down next to it. “So, what?” he says. “You’ll play nice if I do? That’s certainly a lovely sentiment. Except that as far as I can remember, all I ever did to offend you was _exist_. That’s the thing with being a mage, you can’t exactly switch it off. At least not without giving up your entire sense of self along with it. Sorry but that’s not really a trade-off that appeals to me.”

Now Fenris is the one to roll his eyes. It seems the mage is finally feeling himself again. Which is probably why Fenris can’t quite help but bite. “As though the demon you agreed to play host to had nothing to do with it.”

“Justice isn’t a demon,” Anders says automatically.

“So you’ve said.” 

“And so I’ll keep saying until it starts getting through. It hurts his feelings, you know. That people keep calling him that.”

“I’m _sure_ ,” Fenris mutters.

Anders sighs. “What was it that brought you out here again? I still don’t get why Hawke would send you over literally anyone else in the party. Is she really that dead set on us making nice?” 

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply wanted to stretch my legs and you happened to be in the way.”

Anders narrows his eyes, “As though that’s not exactly what we’ve been doing all bloody day.”

Fenris shrugs.

“I’m just saying, the conversation over there must have been really bad if you’ve decided you’d rather come and spend some quality time with little old me.”

Fenris gives him an unimpressed look. “I decided no such thing.”

“And yet here you are.”

For a long moment, Fenris doesn’t reply. But eventually, he says, “You didn’t seem to think much of it.” Anders gives him another puzzled look and he elaborates, “The conversation. Usually, you would have joined in. You would have joined the others for their swim.”

Anders shrugs. “I was thinking.”

“You were sulking.”

“I was _thinking_ about those mages we fought earlier. If you have to know.”

Fenris gives him a stony look. “The blood mages, you mean.”

“Yes, the _blood_ mages.”

“Don’t tell me you were pitying them. I thought that on the topic of blood magic, at the very least, we were in agreement.”

Anders looks thoughtful. He answers quietly, “Maybe I do, in a way. Feel bad for them, at least. People aren’t just born blood mages. Most mages don’t just wake up one day and think ‘Hey, I know, today I think I’ll give blood magic a try!’ Unless they’re Merrill, I suppose. Something has to have forced their hand. They must have felt that they had no choice.”

“You say _most_ mages but that is not so in the Imperium. They are forced there by nothing but their lust for power.”

“Yes, you’ve told me all about that. Several times in fact. But we’re not in Tevinter right now, we’re in the Free Marches, where mages are routinely killed or made tranquil simply for wanting the same freedom as anyone else. It’s not even legal to tranquilise a harrowed mage but that doesn’t stop it from happening. Is it any wonder that we’re terrified? That we’re desperate?”

“You think their desperation justifies their actions?” Fenris asks with a calmness that surprises him. It’s a strange night indeed if the bitterness that usually sours his words and turns conversations into arguments is absent in him.

Anders frowns and it’s clear he finds the question difficult to answer. “I… with blood magic? No. It isn’t worth it. But when a mage is frightened for their life…” he shakes his head. “It’s the wrong choice. It always is. But doesn’t mean I can’t empathise with what brought them there. It doesn’t mean that I don’t think we should have fought back when they attacked us either... But it still feels like a waste.”

“They were weak,” Fenris tells him simply.

“Maybe.” 

Anders doesn’t look terribly convinced. He sits, leaning back on his hands, with his long legs stretched out before him, looking out at the picturesque scene before them. For someone whose face is often such an open book, it’s difficult to get a sense now of what he might be thinking.

Fenris says, “I’m not sure I can think of a greater waste of time or energy than mourning those who would have happily seen you dead.”

Finally, Anders looks at him and there’s a hint of amusement at one corner of his mouth. “Fenris, are you trying to comfort me? Because I have to tell you, you’re doing a terrible job at it.”

Fenris smirks just a little but doesn’t say what he’s thinking which is that he could certainly have done worse. Instead, they both fall silent for a moment. Until a question occurs to Fenris, “What about you? Do you believe you would never submit to such a temptation?” 

“Never,” Anders says with complete conviction.

“Hmm.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

He cannot say. What reason has Fenris ever been given to trust a mage? 

Yet, against his best efforts, Hawke’s words have stayed with him. In two years Anders has been the source of many a headache, but that’s about the most harm he’s ever done to Fenris. It’s possible she has a point.

But trust him? 

“That remains to be seen.”

“So, no.” Anders rolls his eyes and the moment of reflection passes, almost as though it had never been. “Right. Well, as pleasant as this has been, I think I’m going to head back to camp.” 

Anders gets to his feet and gathers his staff and the small bundle of driftwood. Then he heads without a backwards glance towards the orange glow that marks their camp. Fenris stays behind, looking out to the sea for a moment longer before he finally turns and follows.

Back at the camp, he notices Anders begin to join in once more with the group’s conversation. He even laughs at a few of Hawke’s terrible jokes and Fenris accidentally catches his eye while the smile still lingers on his lips. He decides in that moment that he much prefers Anders’ smile to the frown he’d worn earlier. 

The moment passes and Fenris looks away. But he has trouble shaking the thought. 


	2. Anders

"You lied to me."

Anders cheerfully throws out the accusation as he falls into step with Fenris. They’re on their way out of Kirkwall again but in the direction of Sundermount this time. Hawke is in possession of yet another list of items requested by the herbalist who runs a stall at the Gallows. And since they’re on a herb run, Anders figures he might as well come along. It’s always helpful to not have to buy supplies for his clinic when he can pick many of them for free himself. Plus, it’s good to get out of Kirkwall every now and then. Given that the trip to the Wounded Coast last week had not been as relaxing as he might have hoped, Anders is eager to make up for it now.

He’s been debating bringing the subject up to Fenris ever since Hawke came to check on him in his clinic a few days ago. He hadn’t really thought anything of it when he’d mentioned Fenris’ slightly odd behaviour at the coast. He’d just been so sure it had all been down to Hawke’s meddling. Because she must have been the one to send him over. Because she’s been making such a fuss about getting them to ‘put aside their differences’ lately and surely there could be no other reason why Fenris might choose to seek him out. 

Apparently he’d been mistaken.

Fenris has his guard up. No surprise there. He’s not exactly what one would call friendly. He seems to get on with Hawke well enough. But then, Hawke isn’t a mage and that’s kind of a crucial distinction that she often seems to miss when she’s going on about how she just doesn’t get why they can’t all get along. Anders might have agreed to begin with but then Fenris had made it perfectly clear that he had no interest in distinguishing between the Magisters of Tevinter and the mages in the South who are systematically ripped from their families as children and then locked in a tower for the rest of their lives. And it’s not as though Anders was ever going to take that lying down. 

So no. They aren’t friends. They aren’t going to be friends. For Hawke’s sake, they will tolerate each other. Sometimes they will tolerate each other slightly more - or _less_ \- than other times. But, as long as they’re expected to work with one another, that is likely as good as it is going to get. And it’s as simple as that.

Or it had seemed that way. Until last week on the Wounded Coast. 

And, apparently, right now. Because when, a few minutes earlier, Anders had spotted Fenris just a little way ahead of the rest of the group, he’d decided now was the perfect time to bring up that rather odd incident from last week.

Fenris looks at him, those dark eyebrows drawn together to make a deep furrow right in the middle of his face. 

Anders says, sounding perhaps a little bit smug even to his own ears, “Well?”

Fenris lets out a long breath through his nose and looks determinedly away from him. But he answers Anders, so that’s something. Even if it is with another question. “When did I lie to you, mage?”

“Just last week,” replies Anders, sounding perhaps a little too triumphant over successfully getting Fenris to play along. “Remember how you told me Hawke had sent you out to check on me that one night we were camping out at the coast? Well, I spoke to Hawke and do you know what she said?”

Fenris may not be looking at him but Anders still manages to catch the roll of his eyes at that. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will be riveting.”

“Covering up feelings of awkwardness with sarcasm is the oldest trick in the book, you know. I’m practically an expert at it so you won’t pull the wool over my eyes. But, sticking to the topic at hand: Hawke told me the truth of it when she came to the clinic the other day. Said she did no such thing.”

“Hmm.”

“Well it’s not as though I’m angry that you lied to me. I’ve never expected any particular loyalty from you. But I am… perhaps a little puzzled.”

“How distressing that must be for you,” Fenris mutters, while scanning the road ahead. Anders follows his gaze for a second before turning his attention back to the rather frustrating elf walking beside him.

“I’m not losing any sleep over it,” he insists. “I’m really just wondering why you felt a sudden burning desire to check on me under the guise of following up a request from Hawke.”

“That is not what I did.” Fenris falls silent a moment. Anders gives him a doubtful look which Fenris probably doesn’t notice given that he’s currently refusing to even glance in Anders’ direction. It’s not exactly helping his case. “Besides, you were the one who made the assumption regarding Hawke.”

“It seemed like the most logical conclusion at the time,” says Anders with a half shrug. “Certainly more logical than thinking you were worried about me.”

That does the trick. Fenris turns his head and gives him a look of utmost disdain. “I was not _worried_ about you.” 

Anders smirks back at him. “I’m not sure if I believe that.”

“You’re a fool, then. What else is new?” says Fenris with disinterest that Anders can’t help but suspect is rather forced.

“Say what you like, but the evidence is very much stacked against you. After all, you took it upon yourself to check on me. You followed me down to the beach, offered me words of comfort. We had that lovely heart to heart.”

“ _Fasta vass_ , mage, I preferred you when you were sulking.”

Anders chuckles. “I bet you did.” He might have to admit that he’s enjoying this a little.

Fenris looks away. “Whatever came over me that night, believe me when I say it was not an invitation for… whatever this is.”

Anders raises an eyebrow. “And what do you think _‘this’_ is?”

“An opportunity for you to be a pain in my side. Obviously.”

“Oh, come on, I’m being perfectly friendly!” laughs Anders. 

“You’re being perfectly something…”

“Witty...? Charming?” 

Alright, he might be getting a bit carried away now. 

But then Fenris glances at him and Anders feels a flash of satisfaction at what he’s quite sure is a slight upward strain at the corners of his mouth. Is that a glimmer of amusement in those striking green eyes of his? Ha! And here he’d thought he’d just been trying to get a rise out of him for his own amusement. But if Fenris is enjoying himself then there’s certainly no harm done there. Justice won’t even have to sulk about it afterwards. It’s sort of… nice, actually. Which is odd. 

There is not, however, any time to analyse where that feeling might have come from before Fenris’s eyes widen and he lunges towards Anders. All at once, or very nearly so, Anders feels Fenris’ gauntlets grip the front of his coat, the hard ground hitting his back, his staff digging into him in a way that’s definitely going to bruise, and then the sound of something whooshing overhead. Or, rather, where his head had been a moment earlier. 

Anders is, admittedly, a little slow putting it all together. So he’s still a bit stuck on the weight of Fenris’ body covering his own on the hard dirt ground, or the strange intimacy of the elf’s breath on his cheek in the instant before he pushes himself away and up onto his feet, immediately drawing his blade. Anders is a moment behind him, registering what actually happened at just about the time Hawke’s shout of “Bandits!” rings in the air. 

The fight doesn’t take long. Though their attackers have the numbers, Hawke’s small party most definitely have the skill. Despite getting off to a slow start, they eventually manage to pull themselves together enough to take out the majority of the bandits and send the last few fleeing. 

“Anyone need healing?” Anders calls out, as he returns his staff to it’s place on his back. He looks around and sees quite quickly that the answer to that is most definitely ‘yes’. Even if the elf in question is unlikely to admit to it, the arrow sticking out of his arm is sort of a giveaway.

“Fenris?” Anders implores, approaching him with some slight hesitation. 

Fenris looks from his wounded arm up at Anders with his brow furrowed and his teeth gritted against the pain. “Get it over with,” he hisses. Anders feels he could do without the tone but given there’s an arrow currently impaled in one of Fenris’ limbs, he figures he’ll let it slide this once.

He calls Hawke over to lend a hand while he sets about removing the arrow then cleansing and healing the wound. He’s been following Hawke and their little group around for long enough that he’s familiar with healing each of them by now. Even Fenris. Though he is perhaps a little less familiar with him than the others. Fenris has never made a secret of his dislike for magic and for all that Anders is happy to argue over the topic with him, he's not so callous as to force magical healing onto someone who is very clearly uncomfortable receiving it. It was frustrating to begin with. Back when they first met, Fenris would point blank refuse to let Anders heal him magically. So in a situation such as this, Anders would have had to manually clean and bandage the wound until they could either get back safely to the clinic, or, if they were out as they were now, until they could make camp somewhere he could safely stitch him up. It had been, quite frankly, a lot of effort to go to for someone he didn't even like. And Anders was not graceful in his handling of it. In fact, he was downright resentful that Fenris could hate magic that much that he would refuse to even be healed by it. He had his suspicions that Fenris only let him help at all because of the hard time Hawke would give him for it if he tried to refuse. 

The change had come one night when Fenris had been too badly wounded to get him back to the clinic in one piece. When the options had been to heal him magically, or watch him bleed out, Hawke had refused to let Fenris even consider risking the latter. Anders had healed him, Fenris had survived. Since then, it’s not as though Fenris relishes having magic used on him but he can be talked into it, occasionally. If the situation is desperate. 

By now, Fenris has suffered a lot worse than an arrow to his arm but it is an awful inconvenience when it comes to wielding a two handed weapon. They haven’t even made it to their destination yet so if Fenris can’t fight that’s likely to be a problem. Anders is grateful to not have to argue the point with him. 

There are other things, too, that Anders should probably be grateful for now he thinks about it. 

“So,” he begins, as he works, thinking to go easy on him by distracting him with conversation, “You saved my life earlier... That was nice of you.” 

It's all a bit awkward really. 

“Think nothing of it,” Fenris grunts. 

Anders ignores that and says, “I didn’t know you cared.” 

“I _said—_ ” 

“Oh yes, I know,” Anders interrupts breezily. “But to think, a few seconds later and I'd have been out of your hair.” 

Fenris raises his head and glares at him. “Do you really think so little of me as to believe I'd want you taken out by some random thug?” 

The vehemence in his tone puts Anders quite effectively to shame. 

“I, ah...” Anders stutters. “Is that because if anyone is going to kill me it’s going to be you?”

Fenris exhales sharply and the sound gets his message, that _no_ , that was not what he meant and frankly, the accusation was insulting, across with surprising efficiency. 

_Don’t torment the angry injured elf, Anders_ , he thinks to himself. The distinct feeling of disapproval that comes with the thought probably means Justice is in agreement there. But it’s not like the spirit is doing a particularly good job of telling him how he _should_ be handling this unexpected turn in the conversation. 

Anders glances up to see Hawke, still hovering, though her task of bracing Fenris' arm as he’d removed the arrow is complete. Now she raises her eyebrows at him and he feels his face heat up just a little. “Er, I mean... well, no. I suppose I don’t.” Not quite willing to meet Fenris' eyes, he focuses on the slow release of healing energy he’s carefully pushing into the injury on his arm. But it’s a surprisingly clean wound and is healing nicely so it doesn’t provide quite the distraction he needs. Anders catches another meaningful look from Hawke. He clears his throat and adds, “Thank you… is what I probably meant to say.” 

With that, he finally glances up, just as he finishes the healing spell and releases Fenris’ arm. His eyes meet Fenris’, so close it almost makes Anders’ breath catch in his throat, close enough to see brownish flecks hidden among the green of his irises. They're far more than striking, those eyes, Anders finds himself thinking. Fenris is so pretty it’s actually absurd. He wonders how much time he must have spent trying to ignore that fact before now. Not that it isn’t entirely justifiable, of course. Hating someone becomes so much more complicated when you’re constantly noticing how attractive they are. 

Anders gets that sort of unsettled feeling he usually has whenever he’s had a thought Justice doesn’t agree with. It’s enough to snap him out of his reverie. Not that the moment would have lasted long anyway; Fenris looks away just as quickly. 

Anders steps back while Fenris stretches out his arm gingerly, testing the newly healed muscle. Then he looks back to Anders. “I suppose we can call it even.” 

Anders musters up a tentative smile. “That sounds fair. I'll take it.” 

Fenris lets the healed arm fall back to his side and adds, “Thank you... for your help.” 

When he smiles, it does something incredibly strange to the inside of Anders’ chest. Thankfully, the moment is ruined after that when Hawke, with a grin practically splitting her face in two, cheers, “Well you two are doing fantastically. I mean it. Keep up the great work!” Then she claps Anders on the arm hard enough that he actually stumbles a little and wanders off to see what Varric is doing. 

Anders chances another look at Fenris. The smile is gone from his face. But those large green eyes briefly meet his before turning away. 

Anders turns too and hurries after Hawke, determined not to give any more thought to whatever _that_ just was. 


	3. Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated! This chapter's a bit heavier in parts than the last two. I really hope it works and doesn't seem out of place among the more light-hearted parts of the story. Hopefully I'm just overthinking it. I tend to do that. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading/commenting/leaving kudos. I really appreciate it! I'll be back with another update soon.

Fenris has to wonder sometimes if he perhaps spends a little too much time at The Hanged Man. It’s hard to say. Isabela and Varric certainly have him beaten in terms of total hours clocked there but given they both have rooms at the tavern, he’s not sure that lets him off the hook. The truth is that for somewhere so incontestably vulgar, Fenris has grown sort of fond of the place. Living by himself in his dilapidated Hightown mansion, he’s used to spending nights in his own company but it does tend to get dull. While boredom might well be a luxury when compared to his life back in Tevinter, it still helps to get out every now and then. He enjoys paying the odd visit to Varric or Isabela, or Hawke, if she’s around—which she often is. 

Tonight they have a full house in Varric’s personal suite at the back of the tavern, so it seems a good opportunity for a few rounds of Wicked Grace. It’s something Fenris has only picked up in the years since meeting Hawke but he’s already developed a knack for the game, even more so than some who have been playing far longer than he has.

Anders, in particular, does not have fortune on his side tonight. A shame, given that his ability to bluff is the worst of any of them. He knows it too. He had protested at the very notion of the game, claiming he already owed enough coin to more than one of them. Fenris would have been content to let him sit out, yet Isabela was having none of it. Which is what has led them to their current situation. Several rounds in, and Anders is not the only player already wearing considerably less than they started with earlier in the evening. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” Isabela had told Anders, after failing at first to tempt him with the suggestion of playing for clothing rather than coin. “Win one round and we can forget what you owe me for the last game.” And even then she’d smirked with the knowledge of just how bad Anders is at Wicked Grace but it seemed the offer was a good one, too tempting to resist.

Fenris has no desire to lose any of his clothing. In fact, he’d rather lose the coin any day. But he’s confident enough that there are far worse players among them and agrees to the terms readily enough.

Now, Hawke is missing most of her outer layers, Merrill has lost only her scarf, Aveline her headband but Anders is down to only his tunic and breeches, even his hair is loose about his face after giving up the tie he usually keeps it up with. 

Isabela smirks at the mage in obvious self-satisfaction. It’s hard to tell what she’s more pleased about, her clear lead—along with the likelihood that she won’t be forgiving Anders’ debt any time soon—or the resulting nudity.

“I hate you,” Anders tells her dispassionately before taking hold of the hem of his tunic, dragging it over his head and tossing it in Isabela’s direction. 

Isabela cackles and catches the fabric before it can hit her in the face. “Oh, you make it far too easy.” 

Anders tries to scowl but a twitch of his lips betrays his amusement. He seems less concerned with his missing clothing than he is with the loss of the round itself. Which is more than Fenris can say. It’s no surprise to him that stripping in front of the group fazes the mage so little but it’s still the first time Fenris has seen it happen in close quarters. 

He tries to convince himself that it’s only natural to be curious.

Anders sits back in his chair, pouting. He looks different like this, with his dark blond hair loose about his face. He’s let it get long in recent months and the look suits him. As does the lack of his usual plumage, Fenris can’t help but notice. His lanky frame is familiar enough but without a shirt, he can make out the wiry muscles in his arms. They don’t quite hide the slightly underfed look he has about him, but he appears healthier than one might expect a resident of Darktown to be. There are other things that Fenris takes note of too, the freckles on his shoulders and the fine blond hair on his chest among them, but what stands out above it all is the large scar positioned precisely over his heart. A scar that does not make sense because surely nobody could receive such a wound and live. Not even a healer such as Anders. 

No one else seems to pay it much mind, which suggests they’ve all seen it before. Is there some story there that all are aware of but him? Fenris is burning with curiosity, as much as he might hate to admit it. He won’t ask though. He knows they aren’t on friendly enough terms for that.

Fenris only realises he’s looked too long when Anders glances in his direction and raises an eyebrow. “Like what you see, Fenris?” The tone of his voice is light but Fenris thinks he can detect a sarcastic note underneath that, like he knows exactly what it is that’s caught his attention and means only to embarrass him as a sort of retaliation. It works a little too well. Faced with the question, he can’t help but notice the answer isn’t exactly ‘no’. While the scar conjures up some rather confusing feelings in him, the sight in front of him is still far from unpleasant. 

He looks away and is saved from having to answer by Hawke. “At this rate, Norah is certainly going to get an eyeful when she comes in to take our drink orders. Think someone better go up to the bar now before we’re all too indecent?”

Fenris is only too happy to ignore Anders’ question in favour of responding to Hawke’s. “Are you saying that out of concern for Norah, or because your cup is empty and you wish for one of us to fetch you a refill?”

“Well… my cup  _ is _ empty… Also, I’ve lost one of my shoes to Isabela’s cheating.”

At that, Isabela smirks and raises an eyebrow. “You can’t prove anything.”

Hawke narrows her eyes but Fenris can see the laughter shining behind the mock accusatory look. “One day… just you wait, Isabela, I’m going to figure out how you do it and then you’ll be sorry. You’ll all be sorry.” 

Isabela’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “Never going to happen. But I do enjoy watching you try.”

Hawke shakes her head and looks back at Fenris. “Either way, I’m not going down there until I win back my boot, or someone else’s. You’ve seen what that floor looks like.”

Fenris fails to hold back a smirk of his own. “How fortunate for you that I am without your delicate human sensibilities—and that my cup is empty too.”

It’s not running away from Anders if he happens to need a refill, he tells himself. Still, he pointedly refuses to look in the mage’s direction as he gets to his—shoeless—feet and heads for the door. He’s used enough to the Hanged Man’s filth to be less concerned with it than he probably should. 

“Elves are fucking hardcore,” he hears Hawke mutter as the door closes behind him. 

He orders another round for the table and Norah assures him she’ll be up with the drinks in a few minutes so he returns to Varric’s suite. As he steps inside, he gathers that the conversation hasn’t deviated far since he left. Anders is telling a story about a Dalish mage he knew during his time with the Grey Wardens. He has his back to the door and doesn’t look up as Fenris enters. All eyes in the room are on him as he speaks and Fenris cannot help but follow suit. That strange curiosity he cannot seem to fight holding his gaze to the unfamiliar sight of Anders without his battered coat and feather pauldrons. 

Then Anders leans forward in his chair and Fenris sees the mess of scar tissue spread over the mage’s upper back. The presence of the scars there makes as much sense to him as the one over his heart had done. Because Fenris has seen scars like this before. In Tevinter, it had been an all too common sight on the bodies of slaves. Any minor infraction might earn one of them such a lashing. It is a sight he had expected to have left behind when he fled Tevinter. Seeing those markings, violent slashes of white that stand out against even Anders’ pale skin, it’s so incongruous he stops dead where he is and stares, tossed back suddenly into memories of Tevinter and its everyday horrors. 

“Fenris, are you alright?” comes Merrill’s voice, sounding dimly through his confusion. 

And that’s enough to make Anders turn and find Fenris’ eyes locked upon him once again. He sighs. “What is it this time?”

Fenris, who hasn’t quite gathered his wits just yet, replies in little more than a murmur, “Where did you get…” then he catches himself. But too late. Anders stiffens, then only a moment later he sits up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders as though refusing to hide the evidence of what has been done to him. 

“You really have to ask?” he snaps. When Fenris doesn’t answer, he adds, “What? Did you think I was exaggerating when I said that the circles abuse mages? You thought I was making it up for attention or something?”

Fenris can’t bring himself to respond and yet, so much for his ability to bluff; he knows from the way Anders’ own expression closes off that his answer is written across his face. Did he think Anders was exaggerating? Truthfully, yes. He always had. 

The evidence of how wrong he was is written in thick scar tissue across Anders’ skin. And Fenris still can’t look away.

It’s Hawke who snaps him out of his stupor. “Hey Fen?” she calls to him, discomfort laced through the words. “Do you perhaps want to come take a seat back over here so we can get back to the game?”

Fenris turns quickly and does just that. He feels the skin from his cheeks to the tips of his ears begin to burn as he registers the scene he’s just caused. He needs no more than the feeling of his own markings—the constant ache of them in every dot or swirling line etched in lyrium over his skin—to know the mistake he’s made. How often has he been the subject of such stares, ranging from curiosity to pity, or fear in those who know what the markings are and what they can do. He would have thought himself better than that. He just hadn’t been expecting it. 

The evening progresses more normally than he might have guessed following the incident. Norah brings another round of ale for the table. Hawke is the next to lose her shirt, to Anders of all people. He even manages to win a round against Isabela, absolving himself of his debts. He folds the bandana she throws his way and ties it around his head, smiling in smug satisfaction. But he makes no move to use the shirt he wins from Hawke to hide the marks on his back. 

He’s not ashamed of them. No, Fenris knows that what Anders is is angry. Enough to sit up straight and let them look because what was done to him was wrong and he wants the world to know it.

As much as it pains Fenris to admit it, he recognises something in that, something that makes him recall his own decision to stop running. He won’t try to hide the brands that mark him so distinctly, that make it impossible to blend into a crowd. Why should he? What use would there be in hiding and cowering when he can fight? When fighting back is the only way he can ever hope for this pursuit to end. It’s the only way he’ll ever truly be free. 

It startles him how similar the thought is to Anders’ own speeches about his cause. 

Hawke’s words come back to him yet again, insisting that they have more in common than he’s willing to admit to. He thinks of all the times he’s scoffed bitterly, insulted by the very thought. 

And now? Now all he feels is lingering shame at his misstep earlier. Because Anders may wear defiance like an extra layer of armour, one that would take more than a game of Wicked Grace to strip him of, but he hasn’t looked Fenris in the eye once since then. He thinks that might be just as much because of what he didn’t say as what he did. 

As the game draws to a close and the hour grows late, they begin to say their goodnights. Anders is one of the first to leave. He doesn’t need to tell them of his need to be up early the following morning because they all know it. His work in the clinic in Darktown is near ceaseless. His goodbyes are cheerful after his win over Isabela, but not one of his smiles is for Fenris. 

Maybe it’s not so unusual. Anders has said it himself: they’re hardly friends. But Fenris feels all the same that he now has a choice. He can wait for this to blow over and be forgotten as it surely will in time. Or, he can try to make amends. 


	4. Anders

The next time Anders sees Fenris is at the clinic, no sooner does he notice the elf than he glances past him, expecting to see Hawke there too, looking for healing after a run-in with some gang or other. The usual, that is. But Fenris, as far as Anders can tell, is alone. He pauses in his task of wiping down the surface he’d just used to treat a patient and takes in the sight. Fenris is dressed in his usual spiky black armour but does not seem to have just come from a fight. His posture is tense, slightly hunched, but as though ready to unfurl at any moment and strike at anyone foolish enough to try to attack him. So nothing unusual there. He looks perfectly healthy. 

So that begs the question: what is he doing here?

Fenris' eyes meet his briefly before shifting away and he takes a step towards Anders. He doesn’t talk, though. There’s no point wasting time guessing so Anders figures he might as well come out with it. “What’s wrong? Do you need healing? I don’t see any blood on you. There’s usually blood when you need healing. Other people’s more often than not but still...”

Fenris scowls. But not at Anders. Instead, he aims more towards the table where Anders’ hands have stilled in their task of wiping down the surface with a wet rag. Anders figures that’s close enough that the displeased expression must be meant for him. “Do you think me nothing more than some mindless killer?” he asks and Anders raises his eyebrows at the bite in his tone. But he isn’t given time to come up with some equally snappy retort before Fenris shakes his head and continues, “You’ve said as much in the past. But I did not come here to talk about that.”

Anders opens his mouth then closes it, holding back the sarcastic response on the tip of his tongue. “Alright,” he says instead, “then why did you come? I’m going to guess that it wasn’t for the pleasure of my company either.”

“I came to apologise…” he looks up, meeting Anders’ eyes at last, and when Anders peers blankly back at him, he adds, “for my blunder the night before last. It was wrong of me to put you on the spot like that. I spoke without thinking.”

“Oh,” says Anders and his eyebrows scrunch up into a slightly puzzled frown as he takes that in. “Seriously?” 

Fenris looks at him as though that’s really not the reaction he was expecting. The way he holds himself isn’t so different from how it had looked when he walked in but Anders suddenly has the impression that the tension in his limbs has him poised more to flee than fight. The thought doesn’t make Anders feel any less confused. 

“I just mean… I really wasn’t expecting an apology.” He shakes his head, and says shortly, “It’s fine. Happens all the time.”

Again, Fenris doesn’t speak right away. His dark eyebrows are drawn into a frown that likely mirrors Anders’ own. Except Anders doesn’t think he could ever manage to pull off the same level of moodiness as Fenris. Oh, he has his moments, he’s aware, but Fenris is practically a professional. 

“Yet you seemed… upset,” Fenris manages after a long moment’s consideration.

“Right,” says Anders and suddenly he doesn’t really want to look at the elf’s stupid, too-handsome face. He busies himself scrubbing at a stubborn spot on the table while he grinds out, “That was probably the implication that when I say mages are routinely beaten or worse by templars within the circles, you thought I was making it up for attention.”

“I— _ kaffas _ —mage, that was not what I… I believed you were exaggerating, yes.” 

“ _ That  _ couldn’t have been more obvious.” He scrubs harder but the stain won’t budge.

“I was wrong.” Anders stills. He raises his head and stares at Fenris, who peers uncomfortably back at him before continuing, “That is—Do not mistake this for a change of heart. The circles are necessary. But what was done to you...” Fenris trails off, apparently struggling to voice an appropriate assessment. Judging by his frown, his feelings aren’t ones of approval.

Anders lets his gaze drop back to the tabletop, at his fingers still curled around the rag even though his hands have stopped moving. Anders doesn’t exactly need Fenris to tell him that the beatings he’d suffered at the hands of the Templars should never have happened. But it doesn’t stop the sudden awkwardness that grips him when he hears the admission. Even the frustration that comes with Fenris’ refusal to budge on the rest, as though the imprisonment is any better than the abuse that comes with it, doesn’t quite shake the feeling.

“Don’t you even want to know what I did to deserve it?” he asks, still not meeting Fenris’ eyes.

“I know well how people come to ‘ _ deserve’ _ such beatings,” he snarls and Anders looks up again in surprise. That near-permanent scowl is directed back at the tabletop. He lets out a breath. “The punishment never seems to fit the crime.”

Anders doesn’t know how he could have forgotten where Fenris has come from. It was too easy when he was locked up in a circle tower to think of Tevinter as a land of freedom, to tell himself it couldn’t be as bad as they say when he knows well that the Chantry will do anything to demonise mages. But the truth is, it’s anything but. Fenris is proof of that. He can hardly complain about Fenris not believing him and then do the same right back to him. He knows what Fenris is, what he has been. He can only guess what he might have been through to get here. 

He feels the now familiar stirrings of Justice, faced with a problem that needs to be fixed. As surely as the mages of the South deserve freedom, so do the slaves of Tevinter. Anders grips the table beneath his hands, dizzy with the rush of Justice’s indignation. It’s too much, he thinks. What can he hope to do for Tevinter when he’s been working for nearly three years to free the mages here and still no one will listen? He takes a breath, trying to fight off the hopelessness, warring with Justice’s fury.  _ Not now _ , he tells the spirit.  _ At least focus on the subject at hand. _

He looks down at the task he’s abandoned during the conversation and figures it’s no use. Between Justice and Fenris, he isn’t getting anything done now. He tosses the rag into a bucket of soapy water then goes to another clean bucket to wash his hands. Then he goes to pull from the fade for fire magic to dry them, before glancing at Fenris and thinking perhaps that’s not something he should do in present company. He picks up a clean rag instead and dries them off that way.

He’s still trying to shake the feeling off but when he looks again at Fenris, he can’t seem to keep himself from asking, “What about you? You say you’ve seen it happen.” He hesitates. “Did you… Didn’t Danarius ever…”

Fenris’ lips curl into a sneer as he catches Anders’ meaning. “And risk damaging his precious investment?”

Anders winces at his tone. He thought he’d been at least  _ trying _ to be tactful. But then he supposes it may well be an impossible feat with such a question. Still, Fenris brought the subject up first—which is more than he can say about the other night. Anders wonders if he should apologise, or if he actually wants to apologise. But then Fenris releases a slow breath and says, “No. He had more efficient ways of causing pain. But with others, it was a common enough occurrence.”

Anders shakes his head, struck once again by the injustice of it all. It’s not even surprising and yet he’s left reeling by it all the same. “It’s not right,” he mutters. He doesn’t know if he’s saying it more to Fenris or to Justice. Because he has to say something to acknowledge the spirit raging inside him.

He needs to sit down so he moves to one of the nearby crates and does just that. He puts his hands to his face in sudden weariness pushing back the hair that’s fallen loose from its tie.

Fenris takes a few steps closer but maintains some distance as he eyes him warily. “What is it?” 

“Justice is angry,” he murmurs. He sees the effort it takes Fenris not to visibly react but his eyes do widen just slightly. Anders tries not to smirk at how easily rattled he is by the mention of the spirit. It’s not funny, really, and Fenris is probably right to be cautious.

“Is it… under control?” 

Anders rolls his eyes. “Does it look like I’m out of control to you? I can be angry without going on a killing spree, you know.”

Usually, anyway.

But Fenris doesn’t know about the main exception to that and, in any case, Anders would rather not think about it now. Or, preferably, ever.

Fenris is peering at him in such a way that Anders sighs and realises he’ll have to spell it out. “He’s a spirit of Justice, Fenris. Do you think he could listen to what you just told me and not be angry about it?”

Fenris looks doubtful. “I thought his cause was that of the mages.”

“That and every other thing in between, it seems,” Anders mutters. He leans forward, head in hands. “It gets exhausting.” 

He wonders if what he senses from Justice then might be regret of some kind and he feels bad for complaining. He knows Justice doesn’t mean to wear him out, or intentionally cause him distress, but it’s not as though a spirit can help its nature. Anders doesn’t want him to. He just wants… Well, a cup of tea would be a start. He gets to his feet and is halfway towards the makeshift stove he has set up over a brazier in the corner of the clinic when he notices Fenris’ eyes on him. 

“If you are exhausted, then perhaps you should rest,” he suggests.

“That was the plan,” Anders answers. “While I have a moment, anyway.” He grabs a pot of water left from this morning and sets it over the fire to boil.

“Yet your lantern is still lit.”

Anders shrugs. “I’m hardly going to turn away anyone who might need help while I’m here.”

Fenris doesn’t answer. Anders picks up the small jar where he keeps his tea and peers inside it. His supply is running low. The same could be said for a lot of his supplies and he realises he’s going to have to close up the clinic at some point to visit the market. Possibly tomorrow. Still, he looks towards Fenris, who is still watching him with the usual dour expression taking up his face. He hesitates, then asks, “Would you like a cup?” Might as well make an effort to be nice, since they’ve made it this far without tearing out each other’s throats. Fenris’ brow furrows slightly at the offer so Anders clarifies, “ _ Tea _ , Fenris.”

He doesn’t look much less confused but after a moment he answers uncertainly, “Alright.”

It’s not the answer Anders was expecting but apparently Fenris is just full of surprises today. He adds a pinch of the dried leaves to two cups and resists the urge to use a bit of magic to help the water along. “I don’t have a pot, I’m afraid. But I’m sure you can manage.” He takes Fenris’ lack of answer for agreement.

Soon, he returns to the crates he’d settled on a short while earlier with two steaming mugs, one of which he passes to Fenris. As Anders takes his seat and places his cup down beside him to cool, Fenris hovers awkwardly. “You can sit if you want,” says Anders like it should be obvious. He wonders why Fenris accepted the offer if he’s only going to stand around looking as though he wishes he hadn’t. 

It takes another few seconds before he takes the suggestion and sits upon another crate, placing his cup beside him as Anders has done. 

The clinic falls into near silence, the only sounds are distant voices from other areas of Darktown. The rare moment of peace isn’t quite all Anders might have hoped for, between Justice’s dislike for being idle and the rather uncomfortable elf sitting a few feet away from him. He supposes it could be worse. For all his own restlessness, Justice won’t begrudge Anders a short break and as for the company… Anders looks over and catches Fenris’ eye. Fenris quickly looks away. Then he sighs. “This is…”

“It’s a little bit strange, yes,” agrees Anders.

“Perhaps I should leave. I have done what I came here to do.”

Anders just manages to resist rolling his eyes. Honestly, he has no idea what is going on in the elf’s head right now. “You don’t  _ have _ to. We could just, I don’t know,  _ talk _ .” 

Fenris looks entirely unimpressed with the idea. Anders isn’t sure he likes it much either but he did just invite him to have tea so it would help if one of them just said  _ something _ . “About what?” 

“I don’t know, I haven’t left this clinic for three days. Stories about the sick and downtrodden of Darktown don’t exactly make for pleasant conversation. Surely there are far more interesting things going on up in the rest of Kirkwall.”

Fenris shrugs. Anders is already seriously rethinking his decision of offering that tea to him. He picks up his own cup and sips at still slightly too hot liquid. “Have you seen Hawke since the other night?” It seems like a safe topic. They both like her, which makes her possibly the only positive thing they have in common.

“I have. She was at The Hanged Man last night.” Fenris hesitates then appears to make a decision to commit to the story. “It was… an eventful night. I believe she found it too quiet for her tastes to begin with. That seems the most likely reason why she got up onto a table and started to sing—if Hawke ever needed a reason to sing loudly and obnoxiously, that is.” Anders snorts and Fenris actually smirks. Perhaps they’re finally getting somewhere. “It was not long before she was heckled off the table she had commandeered for use as a stage. Though I am not certain the unsuspecting patron who thought to complain knew what he was letting himself in for.”

“I can just imagine.” The truth is, Hawke doesn’t have a terrible voice. She’s quite good actually but ‘loud’ is definitely one way of describing how she sings. That, and ‘without consideration for others’. The songs she sings aren’t exactly Marcher classics. Or even Ferelden classics. They’re more like Hawke classics, which she would very much like to be Hanged Man classics whether anyone else agrees to it or not. “I suppose that didn’t go well for him.” 

“She challenged him to a duel.”

“Of course she did,” says Anders, shaking his head and smiling slightly. “What happened?”

“Isabela egged the entire thing on, of course. And Hawke was determined to show off for her witch. And Isabela too, I suspect.”

“She certainly does do that a lot. Do you think Merrill’s ever likely to actually catch on?”

Fenris rolls his eyes. “It hardly matters to me. Hawke is set on her foolish pursuit of her so my opinion is unlikely to change anything.”

“Hmm…” Anders has to agree that he’s questioned the wisdom of Hawke's interest in a blood mage of all people quite a few times himself. But he’s not sure if that’s a topic he wants to get into with Fenris right now. Or ever. Probably best not to mention magic at all, really. If he can manage it. “So, what happened next?”

“Very little,” Fenris’ tone is bone dry. “It seems for all their threats, neither party was truly committed to the idea of doing any actual fighting. In fact, I think Hawke was relieved when Varric stepped in and talked them both out of going through with it.” 

“And I bet he did it without letting either side feel as though they were taking the coward’s way out. Much to Isabela’s disappointment, I imagine.” 

“Correct on both accounts.”

Anders chuckles. “Well, it sounds entertaining in any case. Perhaps I should get to The Hanged Man more often myself.”

“Perhaps. It would certainly ensure that no one would sustain any lasting injuries next time Hawke feels the need to defend her own honour.”

Anders takes a moment to let that sink in and then a grin spreads slowly across his face. “Fenris. That sounded suspiciously like a compliment. I might even go so far as to call it a glowing endorsement.” 

Fenris’ Wicked Grace face is good, Anders knows it well, but even he doesn’t quite manage to hide his embarrassment. “If that is what you wish to tell yourself,” he mutters. Then he mutters something else that Anders doesn’t catch, before adding, “Is it so unthinkable that I might acknowledge that your… skills can be useful? They have saved my life on more than one occasion. It would be lying to pretend otherwise.”

Anders feels as though he should probably try to wipe the satisfied smirk off his face but he just really can’t help it. “I’m not complaining. I just didn’t think you were capable of it.”

Fenris scowls at him. “If you truly thought me so ungrateful, I wonder why you kept bothering.”

“Oh, come on. Like I’d just leave you to die. You might be a stubborn arse but you forget, so am I—and I don’t leave people to suffer when I can help. It’s a whole thing. You might have noticed.”

Begrudgingly, Fenris’ face softens and when he snorts quietly Anders is oddly pleased to note that the sound is in no way derisive but, rather, amused. “Believe me, I had not forgotten. The ‘stubborn arse’ part in particular.”

Anders can’t help it, he laughs and grins back at him. Fenris huffs and looks away and it’s so bizarrely endearing that Anders just grins harder. It takes a while longer but eventually, Fenris cracks a smile in return. The sight is satisfying enough that Anders wonders if that had been his goal in teasing him all along. The memory of the smile he’d won from him on their way to Sundermount isn’t so far off. He’d enjoyed the sight of it then too. Which is still odd because Fenris is a bloody nuisance more often than not. It’s just sort of a relief not to have to fight all the time. Not that he’s planning to tell Fenris that.

But Fenris almost looks content now as he picks up his cup of tea and sips at it. It seems the story about Hawke has well and truly broken the ice. It’s easy after that to recall a similar incident and relay it to him, making him chuckle softly at the idea of Hawke attempting to raise morale in the clinic by training her mabari to sing along with her. Anders hadn’t quite thought the clinic was the place for it but unfortunately this one  _ had _ been a Ferelden classic and his objection had been sadly overruled. It had cheered a good few of the refugees up for an afternoon though so perhaps it had been worth the headache. 

They talk like that for the time it takes to finish their tea and continue a while longer until they’re interrupted by the arrival of a patient. At which point, he can see Fenris’ surprise at how long he has stayed. Surprise matched by Anders’ own.

“I should leave you to your work,” Fenris says.

“Uh, yes… thank you.” Anders isn’t sure what else to say but that’s never stopped him from babbling before. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon. Whenever Hawke decides to get the gang together next.” 

At that, Fenris just nods and tells him goodbye. 

For a moment, Anders watches him go, then he turns to his patient and forces the thoughts of his strange afternoon with the elf from his mind so that he might focus on his work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was almost ready to go for about a week until at the last minute I decided to cut the original chapter in half and add in a bunch of silly ideas about Hawke instead (she was invented purely as a background character for this story and now I'm getting attached!) I'm trying to find a balance between not wanting to rush the story and not wanting to drag it out too long. So the next chapter is possibly going to be another Anders POV because it was supposed to be part of this one and I'm not sure if I want to force another Fenris chapter in there just to balance it out. We'll see how it goes though. It might just become one of those fics that end up way longer than you ever intended them to be. It's happened with every other fic I've written. Why not this one too?


	5. Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got long! It only occurred to me when I was already mostly done that perhaps I should have written some of it in Fenris' POV. Though I don't think what he's thinking is going to be as much of a mystery to any of us as it is to Anders 😂 I'm still looking forward to getting back to him in the next chapter. It should be an interesting one.

The next time Fenris shows up unannounced at the clinic, Hawke is with him. So that’s the normal part. The part that’s not so normal is how Anders can’t quite keep himself from peering at him as he lingers near the doorway, pointedly not looking in his direction. He’d said ‘hello’ at least. Well, no, he’d nodded and sort of grunted in a way that Anders took for a greeting, a fairly pleasant one by their usual standards, but after that he’d seemed quite content to let Hawke do all the talking. 

Hawke tells him about some job or other that she has lined up for tomorrow that she needs another person along for. She promises there will be coin involved and to tell the truth, Anders could do with some. Despite this, he’s not giving her as much attention as he probably should. He’s slightly distracted by wondering why Fenris came along. He clearly doesn’t need to be here. He doesn’t seem to have anything to say. Perhaps he’s headed somewhere with Hawke and they stopped off here on the way? 

The thing is, Anders has been thinking about Fenris. About the talk they’d had a couple of weeks ago. He’d tried not to—because it was inconvenient and Fenris’ business was none of his—but that hadn’t quite been enough to keep him from going over it in his mind all the same. There were a few things in particular that Fenris had mentioned that had stuck with Anders since that afternoon. The things he’d said about Danarius. Or, rather, the things he hadn’t said. Things Anders hadn’t felt like he could ask about but which had lingered in his thoughts and refused to leave, no matter how uncomfortable it made him to dwell on them. He’d always known about Fenris’ markings. It had been easy enough to guess at the pain they caused him. He’d just never paid it any more attention to it than he absolutely had to as the only healer in their group. He’d been better at keeping out of Fenris’ business before now. Anders isn’t sure what exactly has changed because having tea together once doesn’t exactly make them friends. But whatever it is that’s caused it, something  _ is _ different and Anders doesn’t feel quite right trying to ignore it anymore. The only thing to do is pull Fenris aside and try to talk to him again. 

“Anders?” 

Anders turns his head and is met with the sight of a gloved palm waving just short of his face. He blinks and wonders when Hawke got so close to him. Given the considerable height difference between them, she’d had to take several steps forward to get his attention in such a way. 

“Hello, Anders? Are you still in there?”

He frowns down at her. “What is it, Hawke?”

Hawke withdraws her hand. She casts a quick glance in Fenris’ direction but doesn’t seem to find any answers there. She turns back to Anders. “Do you want to come up for coffee?”

He shakes his head. “Thank you but I’m still busy here. Another time, perhaps.”

“You’re always busy here.”

“That’s not true. I agreed to come to your—” he gestures vaguely “—the thing. Tomorrow.”

Hawke pokes him. Hard. And right in the chest, in the gap where his coat hangs open. “You need sustenance.” Anders tries to make a grab for the offending finger because,  _ ouch _ , for someone who claims to care, she’s certainly violent about it. She’s too fast for him though and steps out of his way, smirking. 

“I have sustenance. I got your care package, remember? And I am very grateful but, please, stop fussing.”

Hawke narrows her eyes. “Which care package?”

“The one from yesterday?” At Hawke’s blank look, Anders considers, “Perhaps Varric sent it?”

Hawke shrugs. “Well, I hope he knew to pack enough to feed half of Darktown along with you. Though, knowing Varric, he’s probably way ahead of me on that.”

She was incorrect on that count. Anders had only shared it this morning with a few of the orphans who showed up here from time to time knowing Anders would feed them if he had a means to do so. That was all there had been enough for. But they’d all been grateful for the food.

“I’m not getting you out of here today, am I?” says Hawke. “Oh well. At least Varric beat me to feeding you. I’ll leave you to it for now.” Hawke turns away to where Fenris waits by the door. “You ready, Fen?”

Fenris only has time to nod before Anders speaks up. “Actually, I was wondering if I could have a word?”

Hawke looks at him questioningly for a moment, then her eyes widen. “With Fenris?”

“Yes,” says Anders stiffly. “With Fenris.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow again and she looks at him sort of like she’s trying to bore all the way through his skull and pluck whatever he’s thinking right out of it. Anders just tries to ignore her and looks over at Fenris, who still hasn’t spoken up. He simply eyes Anders with suspicion and Anders fights the urge to sigh or roll his eyes or make some other outward display of his sudden awkward frustration. 

“If you’re not busy, that is,” he amends. “I could always find you another time if you have somewhere you need to be.”

“I have time,” Fenris responds finally. “What do you need of me?”

“Uh…” Anders looks at Hawke.

“Oh. Right…” Hawke looks baffled. “Should I just…?” she points towards the door and Anders nods.

“That would probably be best. I’ll see you tomorrow, Hawke.”

She looks from him to Fenris. “Are you two going to be okay?”

“It is fine, Hawke,” Fenris sighs. “Go. I will find you later.”

“Alright. I’ll leave the basement door open for you if you still want to use the shortcut up to Hightown when you’re done here.” 

“Thank you. That would be appreciated.”

Hawke looks between them again. “Not gonna lie, I am so confused right now.” Then she simply shakes her head and wanders off.

Anders turns to look at Fenris, who raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to speak. And Anders realises that he’s really not sure where to begin. When he’d thought about talking to Fenris, he hadn’t quite planned on him showing up at his clinic out of the blue. Again.

Then there’s the possibility that this might not be a topic Fenris particularly wants to discuss with Anders of all people. 

He looks at Fenris a long time, long enough to get Fenris to lose his patience and demand, “Whatever you are thinking, just spit it out.”

“You might not like it,” he begins. “Just promise not to bite my head off before I’m done because I really do have a point.”

“Then get on with it,” says Fenris, in a tone that only raises more questions in Anders over the wisdom of broaching this topic.

“I’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time you were here. Specifically, something you said about Danarius.”

He sees Fenris go tense and doesn’t get another word out before he snaps, “You were right, mage. This is not something I wish to discuss with you.”

“Just wait a minute,” Anders insists before Fenris can turn away. “Your markings. They're what he used to hurt you, aren't they?” 

It’s not quite the careful approach he was aiming for but then maybe that was an unlikely goal to begin with. The look Fenris is giving him isn’t making it any easier. Part of him wants to give up. Another part—Justice and his hatred of cowardice, most likely—won’t let him.

“This is hardly new information,” Fenris snaps. 

“No, I mean... You told me last time that he didn’t beat you. But he could use them to cause you pain, couldn't he?” 

The look Fenris gives him is icy. “Your point?” 

“They still hurt?” He's not sure if it's really a question. Anders had seen enough to know the answer. It’s all there in the way he keeps so much to himself. He and Hawke are close but even she doesn’t touch him the way she does so casually with everyone else. But even before all that, Anders has healed Fenris often enough to know it. He’s felt him flinch away from his touch. The first time, he’d taken it as an insult. The second, he’d realised what it really was. And it hadn’t mattered that he never really liked Fenris. He’d been more careful after that. 

“How did you...?” 

“I'm a healer, remember? I pick up on these things.” Fenris says nothing and only continues to give him a suspicious glare. He’s not going to make this easy for Anders, not by a long shot. But something, either Justice or his own instincts as a healer, prevent him from letting Fenris go without at least hearing him out. “Perhaps I could help.” 

Fenris’ expression hardly changes, except the slight thinning of his lips. “You mean with magic.” 

“Yes. How else? Look it won't be that bad. Surely by now you can trust me that much at least.”

It only takes voicing the question aloud for Anders to realise how foolish it sounds. Yes, he has healed Fenris magically before but it was only a few weeks ago that he’d as good as answered ‘no’ to that very question. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Anders wants to help, yes, but he has said his piece and if Fenris decides to walk away now, that’s on him.

However, it seems as though Fenris is determined to keep surprising him. A long moment of silence stretches out between them. The only reason Anders doesn’t attempt to fill it is that he’s preoccupied with trying to figure out what exactly Fenris’ face is doing now. He seems angry but that’s typical Fenris as far as Anders is concerned. He seems suspicious too but Anders can’t quite help but think there’s some sort of curiosity there too. It’s confirmed when finally, Fenris asks, as though it pains him slightly to do so, “What do you have in mind?”

The thing is, Anders’ relationship with Fenris has never been anything besides antagonistic. It’s second nature now to take any dig at the elf he can manage, whether it be retaliatory or pre-emptive hardly seems to matter any more. Being thoughtlessly cruel to each other is just what they’ve always done. This time, though, while the urge to make a smug comment is there, something in Fenris’ face stops him. It occurs to Anders how delicate the situation actually is. 

He hesitates before asking, “If you could perhaps tell me what he did... how he used the markings?” 

Fenris clearly doesn’t recognise the attempt to go easy on him for what it is, as the request only seems to anger him. “How should I know what sort of magic he used against me? Do you think he would explain such things to a slave?” 

Anders has a hard time not just snapping back at him after that. He's trying to help. If Fenris could stop being such a defensive ass for five minutes then he would see that. 

Since the attempt at gentle probing seems to be getting them nowhere, he sighs and asks, “Can I try something?” 

Another suspicious look. 

“Despite how unhelpful you’re being, I have an idea for how I might be able to ease the pain.”

“Why now?” Fenris asks. “You imply that you’ve known about the pain all along and now suddenly you wish to help. Why? You never cared before.”

“You’re right. I didn’t. Is that so surprising? We’ve never been friends. We barely put up with each other and even when we do it’s only because of Hawke. I didn’t care because I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to think about what you were going through. But now I have and I’ve thought of a way to help so here we are.”

Fenris shakes his head. “That cannot be all there is to it.”

Anders loses his temper a little at that. “Why? Because I’m an evil mage and magic can’t possibly be used for good so I must have some ulterior motive hidden up my sleeve? Fuck you.”

Why— _ again! _ —had he thought this was a good idea? Oh, that’s right. He hadn’t. It was just his apparent inability to leave things well enough alone when they were clearly none of his business. If he has the ability to fix something then he should fix it. It’s only _ just _ after all! 

The thing is, he’s not sure it was even Justice’s idea to do this. Justice is all focus. He won’t let injustice slide when directly confronted with it but the rest of the time, his focus is on the mages. Or the people of Darktown, whose plight is inescapable as long as they’re living down here. But Anders is the one who’d let himself get caught up in thinking about Fenris. Not being able to let go of it was probably just a habit Justice had instilled in him.

“I do not think you are evil,” says Fenris. “Annoying, yes. Foolish? Absolutely. But not evil.”

“Oh, well, as long as I’m just foolish and annoying. That’s alright then,” Anders mutters bitterly. 

“I will not be guilted into accepting something I do not understand. You take every opportunity to remind me that you don’t like me, then come to me out of nowhere offering help. Magical help. Knowing my feelings on the matter. Did you expect me to welcome it with open arms? To fall at your feet in gratitude?”

“No, I just—I thought you were coming around. I thought you were beginning to accept that magic can do good. You accepted my help out on the way to Sundermount last time. Didn’t even put up a fight. And you said what you did about if I’d been at The Hanged Man…” Anders sighs his frustration. “It doesn’t matter. I clearly misunderstood.”

They fall silent. Anders glares at the floor by Fenris’ feet for as long as he can manage before he gives in and looks back at his face. Fenris is frowning, deep in thought. He’s about to open his mouth to tell him to go, that he was wrong and shouldn’t have brought it up when Fenris beats him to it. “This is not something you can ask of me lightly. If you truly figured out what was done to me then you must have realised this.”

“I know,” says Anders, though truthfully it might have only just occurred to him that he’s gone about this all the wrong way. “But it seems delicacy really isn’t my strong point. I really did only want to help though.”

Fenris goes quiet again. Anders really doesn’t like it when he does that. It makes him feel as though he needs to keep talking when really that’s what got him into this argument in the first place. He should have left well enough alone.

But then Fenris says, “I’m still not entirely clear on how you intend to go about it.”

Anders blinks. He’d been so sure that the conversation was over that he has to take a moment to come up with an answer to that. 

“It would take only a small amount of magic to test it,” he says slowly at first. Then he picks up speed as he gathers his thoughts, “I'd need to channel it directly into your markings. Just in one area to start with, and only for long enough to see if it works. The lyrium should boost the effect of the spell. It likely wouldn’t be permanent but it might help for a while. And if it hurt in the slightest, I’d stop. You’d only have to tell me.”

Anders doesn't know what to make of the look on Fenris’ face at that, other than this all clearly being a lot to process. It takes him a long moment to give any answer at all and when it comes, it is not a yes but it is not the ‘no’ he’d been expecting earlier. “I cannot give you an answer right away. I would need to give some thought to the matter.”

It might not be the answer that comes to him automatically but Anders likes to think he’s capable of being understanding, so what he tells Fenris is, “Of course. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” And he does mean it, really. Anders has never forced healing magic on him before. He’s not going to start now. Whether he thinks the elf is being stubborn or not.

Fenris doesn’t seem to expect the response though. There’s a soft sort of surprise in his expression, which he quickly wipes away before nodding once and turning to go. 

He makes it almost to the door before stopping. For a moment he just stands there with his back to Anders, not moving. Then, “You believe it would be a simple matter to test it?” When he turns and looks back, Anders doesn’t know what it is that has made him reconsider but he can see the conflict the thought brings him.

“I don’t see why not.” Then, because he senses Fenris’ hesitation, he offers, “If you want to try it now, we can.”

“You will stop if I ask?” 

“Just say the word and it’s over. I promise.” 

Then slowly, uncertainly, Fenris nods. “What do I need to do?”

Anders looks him in the eye long enough to get a sense of how much it takes for Fenris to agree and when he sees it he can't quite believe that he's agreed to it at all. It's enough that Anders finds the resolve to shed any lingering feelings of antagonism after their argument and approach Fenris simply as a healer, the way he would anyone who came to his clinic seeking relief from pain or illness. He looks around for the best place to do this. There are several cots located around the clinic, which would probably be the most physically comfortable but Anders can’t quite see that being a high priority for Fenris, not when he’s already made himself vulnerable like this. Still, it would be better for him to sit. Anders gestures to the crates where they had sat the last time they were here together. “Come and sit. And I’ll need you to take off your gauntlets.” 

Fenris doesn’t exactly seem eager to comply but he does so anyway without complaint and Anders moves to crouch in front of him. He can sense that Fenris is putting a lot of trust in him to go along with this. Perhaps all that he can manage given their rocky relationship. He tries to make it easier by explaining, “In the past, I've always tried to avoid your markings when healing. As much as possible anyway. But now I'm going to try targeting them specifically. For now I just want to focus on your hand for as long as it takes to see if it works. Then we can figure out where to go from there. Does that sound reasonable to you?” 

“It does.” The answer comes slowly but it’s enough. 

“Alright. Give me your hand.” Anders pauses, then adds, “When you’re ready.” 

He holds out a hand and after hesitating a moment, Fenris takes it, placing his palm down on Anders’ open one. His eyes flick uncertainly up and then away and Anders closes his fingers lightly around Fenris’. 

It's strange. For all Anders’ determination to keep a professional distance, he can't simply forget who Fenris has always been to him. But that's not even the strangest part of it. Fenris’ hand is cool, his palms rough with callouses. They feel solid and real and Anders can’t remember the last time he held someone’s hand like this. Knowing who it is, perhaps he should be repulsed. But he isn't. Whatever it is he does feel, he doesn’t pause to give it a name. He begins to work. 

It’s only through years of experience working as a healer that Anders feels any confidence doing this. If he messes up, whatever tentative peace that has been building between them lately might well be ruined. Not only that, but he truly doesn't want to hurt Fenris. He takes his time, pulling gently on his connection to the fade and keeping careful control over the healing magic that springs so easily to his fingertips. Just as tentatively, he begins to channel it directly into the pale lines of lyrium striped along Fenris’ fingers and hands. No sooner does he begin than the lyrium lights, bright blueish-white, casting them both in its glow. Fenris sucks in a breath and Anders looks sharply up at him, trying to ascertain whether he’s inadvertently caused any pain. “Alright?” he asks. Fenris simply nods without meeting his eyes. Instead, frowning down at their joined hands. “Just a little more then,” Anders murmurs and continues letting his magic seep along the glowing lines of lyrium, keeping tight control of his magic so as not to overwhelm Fenris. He lets the healing spell flow just as far as Fenris’ wrist before stopping and looking up. “How does that feel?” 

“It... I believe it’s working.” 

Anders offers him a smile. “That’s a good start.” Still holding Fenris’ hand, he lightly brushes his thumb across the tops of his knuckles, where the white lines cross over onto his fingers. It's so strange to feel it, the lyrium pulsing against his skin, so close he can almost hear it, like a familiar song. Not at all like the dreadful rhythm in his nightmares, but a soothing, entrancing melody. After too long he realises that he’s still moving his thumb against Fenris’ skin, lightly caressing the marks he’s always tried until now to avoid. He stops and stutters out a question, “A-any pain?” 

He’d expected Fenris to be annoyed with his over-familiarity but he hasn’t said a word. He hasn’t even dragged his eyes away from the place where Anders was caressing his hand a moment earlier. He shakes his head, mouth slightly parted as though in shock or wonder. His hand grips Anders’ with seemingly no thought of letting go. 

Anders takes a breath. “That's good. Perhaps we should take a break and then... Try the rest?” 

Fenris looks up at him then and Anders sees how unusually wide and vulnerable his eyes now are. He nods. Anders swallows. Then he tries for a reassuring smile as he gently pulls his hand away and gets to his feet. 

Anders heads for a small table at the far end of his clinic, where he keeps his supplies. He takes a cup and pours water from a jug. He gulps half of it down, letting it provide a welcome distraction from his discomfort. Then he remembers himself and gets a cup for Fenris too. He is a patient after all. He goes back and offers the drink to Fenris, who accepts it without a word, possibly too distracted himself to think of it. Anders goes to another nearby crate and sits.

His gaze soon strays back to Fenris. He has placed his cup at his side and is still looking at his hand, stretching and flexing his fingers out in front of him. Eventually he stops and looks at Anders, uncertain. “Would you... continue?” He asks like it costs him something to do so. Anders supposes he understands why but he tries all the same to answer like Fenris is any other patient. 

“Of course.” 

He wonders then how he’s supposed to follow the lines of the lyrium without asking him to strip the armour and leathers that cover it. He’s already failing at pretending Fenris is just another patient because with anyone else he knows he wouldn’t care. It's not as though nudity means much to him, both as a healer and having grown up in the circle, where no one below the rank of enchanter is ever afforded much in the way of privacy. But even so, he’s not sure he could handle seeing Fenris so exposed like that. Not when the usual boundaries between them are in such a state of disarray. And even though he suspects there was some measure of desperation that prompted him to ask for Anders to continue using magic on him, he suspects that this is where he would draw the line and walk away. 

He searches for a solution and is surprised when it’s Justice that comes up with one. He feels the spirit come forward and all at once he understands the strange song he’d thought he heard earlier. It was the lyrium, yes, but Justice was the one that was hearing it. And with Justice’s help, he might be able follow the path of the brands just by the feel of the lyrium and the song it makes. It would take a lot of concentration but Anders thinks he could probably do it. 

Fenris is looking back at him still and his frown has deepened now as Anders is lost in thought. “Mage...” he prompts, “Anders?” 

“Sorry, I'm just... Figuring this out. I... I might need Justice’s help. Is that alright with you?” 

Fenris’ mouth thins out into a hard line, his disapproval evident and Anders can’t help the irritation that it stirs in him. 

“He’s always here you know. Wherever I go. Either you’re okay with me healing you or you’re not. Justice is always going to be involved to a certain degree. He just needs to be a little more hands on in this case.” 

Fenris’ gaze falls back to his hands, now clenched in his lap. “It is not as simple as you say. I... want your help. But I cannot forget the things I witnessed in Tevinter.” 

Anders has been trying to be understanding, he really has, but the implication frustrates him. Probably more than it should.  _ I’m not Danarius, _ he wants to say.  _ I’m not some magister out to abuse you. I’m just trying to help! _

It takes only one look at Fenris’ face to see he knows this. Anders has to force himself to be patient. It seems clear enough already that Fenris is trying just as much as he is. 

“He’s not going to hurt you. He just has a better sense of where your markings go than I do alone. So unless you want to take all that spiky armour off and let me get a look up close, this is the only way I can think to do it.” 

Fenris seems momentarily startled by the suggestion but quickly deflects it, “He senses...? What do you mean by this?” 

“It's nothing weird. It's the lyrium. It sort of sings to him. Alright, it’s perhaps a little bit weird. It's a fade spirit thing apparently. I'm not sure how to explain it.” 

Fenris raises an eyebrow and the sardonic look he gives him makes him look more like himself than he has done throughout most of this conversation. “You are aware that this is far from helping matters?” 

Anders sighs. “Look... I can try to keep the glowing to a minimum. Will that do? Because I don't know what else to say.” 

Fenris appears to think about it. “You will be able to stop him. If I ask it?” 

“Yes. It will still be me, Fenris. I know that probably doesn't mean much to you but... Well, you've already agreed to let me use magic on you once today. That has to count for something.” 

Fenris frowns, still thinking. He looks up, searching Anders’ face for a long moment until, eventually, he gives a small nod. “Very well. I give my consent.” 

“Good. That’s… good. We should start then.” Anders watches him for a moment to be sure he isn’t about to change his mind. Then he pulls one of the crates forward so that he can sit level with Fenris this time. When they’re close enough to comfortably touch, he sits and thinks that at least this time he knows what to expect. He lets out a breath then holds out his hands to Fenris. “Both, this time.” 

Fenris too, takes a moment to breathe in and out slowly and then places his hands in Anders’. They feel cool but the feeling is not unpleasant. He has to fend off thoughts about Fenris having nice hands and how comfortable they feel in his. More so than he could have expected from someone he doesn’t even like that much. Really, what kind of thought is that to be having at a time like this? Anders realises that he might have overlooked how strangely intimate it would feel to do this, sitting face to face, their hands joined between them, with Fenris’ green eyes locked on his, visibly uncertain but having decided, despite that, to trust him. 

_ Just focus _ , Anders tells himself. Then, shortly after that, _ Justice... Help. _

“I'm going to start now,” he says aloud and Fenris nods his permission to go ahead. 

Justice comes forward as soon as Anders’ magic touches Fenris’ brands, causing them to light the same brilliant blue-white as before. They sing to him and it’s louder this time with Justice at the forefront of his mind, not in complete control but guiding him, basking in the lyrium's song. It’s beautiful. Anders has never heard anything like it. He’s never felt Justice like this, either. He’s so used to the spirit’s endless focus yet now even he can’t seem to help being thrown off course by this strange feeling that comes over them. The moment doesn’t last long, however, and he’s soon prompting Anders not to let himself be distracted. He probably has the right idea. 

Anders turns his attention back to Fenris. There's nothing in his face to suggest the magic is too much or is hurting him in any way, so Anders proceeds, slowly and carefully following the lines of Fenris’ lyrium brands and pushing cooling, healing magic into each of them. The magic comes almost too easily, enhanced by Justice and by the lyrium itself but he takes care not to let it be too much. He watches Fenris’ face to be certain of it. Soon Fenris’ eyes fall closed but it’s not pain he sees in the way his lips part, it’s relief. Anders keeps going. 

When it’s done and the lines of every one of Fenris’ strange tattoos has been traced over with Anders’ magic, he’s exhausted not for lack of mana but for how long it took, by the sheer intensity of concentration required for it. By the unexpected intimacy of the act. He might not have thought this through when he started but all he can think now is that if it worked, it has to have been worth it. Because Fenris would not have agreed to something like that for nothing. 

“How do you feel?” Anders asks. Fenris' hands still rest in his and he has to keep himself from tracing over the tops of them with his thumbs the way he had earlier. He lets go, pulling his own hands to his sides and curling them into loose fists. Justice has retreated now but he can still hear that beautiful song echoing in his mind. It's hard to wrap his thoughts around how something that has caused such agony for Fenris can have sounded like it did to Justice. He wonders if it was wrong to have admired it. But it was just so... 

He’d like to say that he doesn’t know how such music could belong to Fenris of all people but there seems to be little point in denying how well Fenris and the word ‘beautiful’ go together. Not after he’s spent the entire time it took to heal him watching for every flicker of feeling that passed over his face. No, if anything, the concept is more firmly in place than it ever was. There’ll be no getting rid of the thought now. 

Fenris looks down at his hands, stretching his fingers out in front of him. “It worked,” he murmurs. “I never...” His dark eyebrows twist into a frown and he can’t seem to bring himself to look Anders in the eye. Still, Anders isn’t quite sure if it’s a negative reaction or if it’s just  _ Fenris _ , for whom frowning is something of a default expression. If he’s lost for words, he can only hope that’s a good thing. 

In any case, Fenris doesn’t seem in a hurry to speak up so Anders prompts, “So, no pain? That’s good, right?” 

Fenris nods but still doesn’t look at him. “Yes...” he manages eventually. “I... do not know...” 

“’Thank you' usually works,” says Anders, forcing a too light tone that is probably more likely to get him in trouble with Fenris than anything else. 

But instead of snapping, he just says it. “Thank you.” The words too quiet, Fenris still barely able to look him in the eye. Anders doesn’t know what to make of it. After what he’s just done, can Fenris really still be refusing to acknowledge that, magic or not, he just did a good thing? It wasn’t as though changing his mind was the motivation for it, he really had just wanted to help, but an acknowledgement—just a small one!—that maybe he’d been wrong was hardly going to kill Fenris. 

He glances up and must catch the slightly sour expression on Anders’ face. “That was insufficient,” he realises. “I apologise. I am grateful for your help. It—all of this—was simply unexpected.” 

Anders considers this. “You never even thought to ask for help with it, did you?” 

“I did not know it could be helped.” 

At last Anders softens slightly. “Well, neither did I, really. It was a lucky guess. I still can’t say for certain how long the effects of the spell will last. But if you need to come back you can just ask. You know where to find me.” 

Fenris finally looks up at him and the vulnerability in his expression is enough to make Anders regret his harsh thoughts earlier. “Thank you,” he says again and Anders can see that he means it, despite how difficult it might be for him to acknowledge that. Anders considers that maybe patience is something he’ll have to practice with Fenris a little longer. 

“You’re welcome,” Anders tells him. 

When Fenris leaves, Anders watches him go and his hands grip the fabric of his coat. His frustration has cooled now. But he doesn’t feel calm. His head rings with music that feels both familiar and not at the same time. And his hands feel empty. He wonders how starved for touch he must be to lament the loss of Fenris' hands in his. Of all people,  _ Fenris _ , who he doesn’t even _ like _ . Somehow that doesn’t seem to stop the thought that he wouldn’t mind being touched by him again. By those hands... In Anders’ hands... or anywhere else for that matter. Which is the thought that makes him realise this situation is far worse than he’d known. And Anders is forced to consider that this might have already spun out of control too fast for him to hope to stop it. 


	6. Fenris

The basement entrance to Hawke’s new estate is only a short distance from Anders’ clinic, meaning it’s possible to get from one place to the other without meeting a single other person. It’s something Fenris is grateful for, given the unexpected turn his conversation with Anders ended up taking. He lets himself inside, closes the door behind him, then stops and lets out the breath that he’s been holding. It comes out too fast and he has to take a moment to bring it back under control. But at least he can afford to do that here. The room is dark and dank, low on Hawke’s list of priorities when it came to restoring the manor and making it a home for herself and her mother. That just means that no one else is down here. Nor is anyone from the house likely to come. Fenris locks the door behind him so that he can’t be followed from Darktown either while he attempts to process what just happened.

Very little light reaches this far into the cellar. There is some that creeps in from beneath the door from the braziers scattered about Darktown and some from above which indicates the direction of the staircase leading up to the rest of Hawke’s estate. Fenris can still pick out the lines etched in lyrium onto the hands he holds out now in front of him. Even without activation there is a faint shimmer to them; what little light there is reflecting off them in the gloom. As much as he hates them, the sight is familiar to him. As was the ache, which had been a constant for as long as he remembers. 

Now it is gone. Though the lines still remain, a dull white that stands out in the dark room. He wonders what effect activating them might have after Anders’ healing. Would it bring the pain back? For now he’d rather not try it and find out but he still has the thought that if it hurt at least that would reestablish some sense of normal. He could pretend that none of what just happened had taken place. That Anders had never made his proposition to him. That Fenris had never taken him up on it. It’s not exactly what he wants but it might be easier than trying to understand what made him agree to Anders’ offer in the first place.

A few short minutes ago, he had felt a confused sort of gratitude. Now, he supposes he still does but the feeling is troubling him. What had he been thinking? In all these years of not knowing what might be lurking around the next corner, one thing he had always been sure of was that he wanted nothing more to do with any sort of magic. He hadn’t always had much of a choice in that when it came to Anders. He’s part of Hawke’s team and Hawke is the closest thing to a friend Fenris has ever had—that he can remember. If having Hawke in his life means putting up with Anders he’s then he’s come to accept that. Just so long as, barring any real emergency, he keeps his magic away from Fenris. 

What had just passed in the clinic had not been an emergency. Nor had the incident on the way out to Sundermount a few weeks ago, though at least that had been a practicality. This, though… he’s been living with the pain of his markings long enough to know he could have continued to do so. But the mere thought of having it gone… The relief once Anders had begun to work his spell had been too much to resist. He’d wanted more of it. 

This sort of temptation never comes without consequences. Fenris  _ knows _ this. And he’d trusted the mage anyway. Cast aside everything he believed in one impulsive moment. For  _ Anders _ . 

He doesn't know what the consequence will be but there will be something. There is always something. His time in Tevinter has taught him that.

Fenris leans back against the locked cellar door and sinks to the floor. In his sudden haste to leave the clinic, he hadn’t bothered to put his gauntlets back on. He’d simply grabbed them and hurried out. Now he tosses them aside as carelessly as he had his wariness of the mage and pushes his hands through his hair. There is no sting, no hint of soreness that comes with the touch, just the feeling of the soft strands between his fingers. He drops his hands to his knees, tucked up in front of him and his mind wanders back to the feeling of the mage’s fingers clutching his. Fenris cannot think of a time when the touch of others has incited any feeling in him besides pain or revulsion. But Anders’ hands had been warm, the light touch of his thumb as it traced over the tops of his knuckles had not hurt. If anything it had just created more of that warmth, a sensation he could swear he felt spreading through him, soothing him as it went. But though the feeling has been chased out of him by the realisation of what he’s done—what he agreed to—the touch itself he feels still. He grips the hand Anders had first held in his other, rubbing at it with his palm until he can no longer feel the tingling feeling Anders has left him with. But the memory of it remains. Try as he might, Fenris cannot rid himself of it.

* * *

He had meant to avoid the mage for a while after that. The attempt lasts three days before Hawke insists that she needs him for a job in Lowtown and he can’t explain to her why he’d rather Anders not be there. As far as she’s concerned, the two of them have  _ ‘finally started getting along—sort of’ _ so refusing to work with him will likely only invite questions Fenris is not prepared to answer. 

So of course, he follows Hawke down to Lowtown and there is Anders, waiting with Merrill and Isabela outside The Hanged Man. Fenris does not look at him. The only thing worse than Hawke having any inkling of the turmoil his thoughts have been in over the past few days would be Anders himself finding out. He realises that acting differently will only make it worse because the damn mage can never just let anything be—the fact that they’re in this situation in the first place is testament to that—so any change in behaviour on Fenris’ part is bound to lead to a confrontation of some sort, but he’s not sure how he  _ should _ act. Three days and he’s had no peace from his thoughts of the mage. At this point he honestly couldn’t say if he’d rather scream at Anders for causing this or—or…

He tries to think of something else. They’re out searching for the base of some Lowtown gang, the Dog Lords, he thinks it is this time. There will be coin in it if they get them all so there’s plenty of incentive to focus. But it’s difficult, in between fights, not to notice Anders’ gaze on him. It seems that every time he turns it’s to find the mage’s eyes boring into him, a crease between his eyebrows, his lips pursed in a way that usually never fails to annoy him. And Fenris is annoyed—but at which of them, he’s not sure. 

It’s difficult. In the short time since Anders healed him, Fenris has felt no hint of the pain he’d grown so used to. He feels lighter, if only physically. He’ll let himself be distracted for moments and then find himself tracing his knuckles lightly with the pad of his thumb. He still can’t quite wrap his mind around the idea of touch without pain but he can’t get it out of his head either. 

He’s been watching the others in this time, the few times he’s seen them over the past few days, and it’s so clear to him that this is not something any of them have had to consider. Hawke, in particular, is free with the touches she offers. She flirts easily—or awkwardly in some cases. She offers hugs, or playful slaps. She leans against her friends or puts her arm around their shoulders, squeezes their hands. But she keeps her distance from Fenris. He’s always been grateful for that. It was the sort of consideration for his preferences that he’d always appreciated in her. Besides, the physical distance was more than made up for by the warm looks or the bad jokes. The support she never failed to lend him. 

Once Fenris starts thinking about how accustomed he is to not being touched, he can’t stop noticing it. But it’s not Hawke who he thinks about. He’s comfortable with their friendship as it is and doesn’t want the way she treats him to change now. It’s not Isabela either, which is more surprising. Touching is something that she at least has expressed an interest in. Fenris is used to feeling her eyes on him far more than he is any other member of their group. He’s listened to some of the suggestions she’s made and realised that whether they should be taken seriously or in jest is entirely up to him. It’s not as though he’s never thought about it. It never seemed like a realistic option to actually take her up on it. Now he wonders if it could be.

Except that it’s not her he can’t stop himself from thinking about.

He doesn’t know why it should be Anders, of all people, that has taken up residence in his thoughts. Somewhere beyond the frustration that has built up in him since he walked out of the clinic the other day, he’s still grateful. It’s just that that feeling has been complicated by all the other things that have occurred to him since. Can it be gratitude that’s causing this? Or is it simply because it was Anders that touched him first, his hands that demonstrated the success of his own healing spell? It’s the only explanation he can think of for why those hands appear so often in his idle daydreams. Though, It doesn’t quite explain his lingering thoughts of that hesitant smile the mage has offered him once or twice. They’re never the sort of unguarded smiles he often receives from Hawke but for all their uncertainty Fenris knows that they’re genuine. And that’s another thing he can’t forget. 

One good thing about finding Anders more annoying than anything else is that it usually distracts from those other qualities. Usually. Tonight that’s not working so well. Even as Fenris catches him frowning, there is something vulnerable about those lips, so soft and pink, in contrast with the rough stubble that surrounds them. Fenris tears his eyes away when he finds himself thinking about what each of those things would feel like. He tries to erase the thought of tracing the line of those lips with the pad of his thumb the same way Anders had lightly caressed his knuckles just a few days previous. When he realises that he’s dragged his eyes away only to land on those very hands that had held his, Fenris scowls and turns his whole body away. He hears Anders huff in annoyance but whatever he’s thinking, he clearly doesn’t want to say in front of the others. Fenris can’t think of what other reason the mage would have for keeping his mouth shut. 

Hawke calls for them to hurry up and join her, having finally figured out which direction they’re supposed to be heading in. Fenris keeps his guard up, his eyes back on his surroundings in case of a surprise attack. But even through it all he can’t shake his awareness of the mage. And there’s no point in pretending it’s for matters of safety. Not after the other day. 

It turns out to be a routine job. They clear out the disused foundry building in under an hour and having to turn his focus to infiltrating the gang’s hideout affords Fenris some respite from the thoughts that have been bothering him all evening. As the only warrior among them, he cannot afford to be distracted. Despite taking the brunt of the attack, he comes out of it without any severe injuries and he’s glad not to have to turn to Anders for healing again. Though some part of him wonders what the point of refusing it would be now. An even smaller part—a stray thought, really—points out that going to Anders for healing means he’d get to feel his touch again. And isn’t that what he’s been craving all this time? Touch? Though Fenris’ wounds are minor, the kind he can tend to easily himself back at the manor, surely Anders would still help with them. 

Isabela is in the process of searching the bodies of the fallen Dog Lords, while Merrill helps, chatting away as she does so. Anders is with Hawke, his fingers glowing blue as they pass over a deep gash on her arm. Fenris watches as the wound closes and Anders traces long fingers over the newly healed skin, making sure the spell has worked to his satisfaction. Fenris doesn’t even realise he’s staring until Hawke calls his name. “Still in one piece?” she asks when he jerks his head up to meet her eyes. He nods stiffly and refuses to look in Anders’ direction, despite him still being right there by Hawke’s side.

Once they’ve scoured the building for any valuables, Hawke announces her plans to drop by The Hanged Man to collect her reward. She doesn’t intend to stay long, she says, as the women apparently have some prior plan to convene later at Merrill’s little apartment in the alienage. Fenris is too busy thinking that the less he knows about that plan, the better, to consider that perhaps he should have walked as far as The Hanged Man with her. Even if Hawke doesn’t intend to stay, Varric will likely be there. But he’s too slow off the mark and the three women wander off together, leaving him alone with Anders.

The only consolation he feels is the possibility that the mage will retreat as quickly as the others but that thought is dashed when he turns to Fenris instead. He should have guessed that would happen. But he had hoped… 

What?

He drags his eyes up to meet Anders’ and wonders what he really had hoped. Had he truly wanted Anders to leave, or was that just what he was trying to convince himself?

“How are you feeling, Fenris?” asks Anders, in a businesslike tone that badly masks the frustration Fenris has been sensing from him all night. “Any pain?”

Fenris frowns back at him and one thing he does manage to convince himself of is that the least he could do is answer. He shakes his head. “None.”

Anders purses his lips, mask slipping just slightly as he answers coldly, “Good. Let me know if that changes.” Fenris thinks he might leave then but he doesn’t. Instead, he waits a moment, just looking at him before he lets the mask drop entirely and releases the sigh of frustration he’s been holding back all night. “Why does it have to be this way? I know the other day wasn’t exactly easy for you but you at least seemed thankful for it at the time. Now you're back to scowling at me every time you so much as glance my way and what have I done but try to help you? That wasn’t nothing to me, you know. I was making an effort because I thought that’s what you wanted to try too. But it’s no use, is it? Every time, it’s one step forward and several immediately back. I don’t know why I bother!”

He doesn’t wait for a response to the outburst. Perhaps he doesn’t expect one because as soon as he’s done talking, he turns on his heel and starts in the direction of the nearest stairway to Darktown. Fenris barely has time to register his own reaction. He moves without thinking and the next thing he knows Anders has stopped and is looking sharply back at him and then down to where Fenris has reached out and closed his hand around Anders’ wrist, keeping him from leaving. 

He doesn’t speak. Perhaps he’s waiting for Fenris to. But Fenris is distracted by the feeling of Anders’ arm, the warmth of him against the palm of his hand. Perhaps he’s also waiting for Fenris to let go. But he doesn’t do that either. 

He’s still wearing his gauntlets, which makes the whole thing quite a bit different to the way Anders had touched him three days ago. But the undersides of them are open and he can feel Anders’ skin under his. This sort of possessive grip on the mage isn’t quite what he’s been thinking about in the time since they last saw each other. He risks Anders pulling away to let his hand slip until Anders’ fingers tickle his palm. Fenris looks up to see Anders frowning down at where their hands meet. Acting on the strangest of impulses, he slowly closes his fingers around Anders’ palm, careful not to let the sharp tips of his gauntlets cut into him. Anders watches him do it, the confused little furrow between his eyebrows deepening before he looks up, meeting Fenris’ eyes. And Fenris sees something there that makes him forget all other thoughts: desire. It’s such a perfect mirror of his own, that somehow in that moment he knows he’s not the only one who has been fighting off these thoughts. 

Fenris moves once again without thinking, tugging Anders towards him with the hand he’s already holding and reaching up for him with the other. The back of Anders’ neck is warm and soft when Fenris grips it and pulls Anders down to him. And so are his lips when Fenris crushes them clumsily against his own. He hears the startled sound Anders makes and tries to right the pressure, pulling back slightly but without breaking contact. He may have thought about this over the past few days more times than he wants to admit but the reality of it is far more difficult to navigate than it had been in his daydreams. The warm press of his lips and the scratch of stubble against his chin had been part of that. The clash of teeth and embarrassment at his own gracelessness, less so. He tries again but Anders’ hand against his cheek stops him as he draws back slightly and whispers, “Just slow down a bit.” 

The sound of his voice is almost enough to jolt him out of whatever foolish impulse has taken over him. But before he can wrench himself away, Anders leans back down and kisses him, with far more precision and expertise than Fenris had managed. And any thought that had attempted to creep back to him is chased away again. He loses himself in the sensation of Anders’ lips moving against his, in the soft touch of his hand on his face, in the wet swipe of his tongue against his lips, which Fenris opens, letting him in. Anders kisses him deeply and it feels like more than he possibly could have dreamed. Anders’ hand slides back along his jaw to tangle in his hair and even that feels better than he’d imagined it. He’s come to know Anders as a man who puts all of his passion into everything he does and the way he kisses is no exception to that. There is so much feeling in it that it leaves no room for thought. 

But when it’s done, when Anders releases him and pulls away, those thoughts come creeping back. Anders looks down at him, that small frown of confusion lingering despite the parted lips and the slightly dazed look in his eyes. Fenris steps back, breathing hard. Anders says, “I’m going to be honest with you, that’s really not where I was expecting this conversation to go.”

As though this even were a conversation. As though Fenris could muster a single word to say. No. He couldn’t possibly. His thoughts have returned to him in a rush, all at once and more than he can process. The only common theme to them he can pick out is that he cannot believe he just did that. With Anders. With this mage who he has hated for three years. Or... who he  _ had _ hated. Perhaps not anymore. But even that thought is too much right now. He takes another step back and sees Anders looking at him with more questions in those amber eyes than Fenris could ever hope to answer. 

This was a mistake: coming here, remaining afterwards. All of it. He knows it because of how Anders' touch lingers even more stubbornly than it had the other day. And Fenris wants more, far more than he can let himself take. Not from the mage.

With that thought, Fenris turns from Anders and runs.


	7. Anders

Fenris disappears in a blur of black and silver glinting in the moonlight for an instant before he disappears around a corner. Anders stares after him, unmoving except to bring a hand to his mouth. His lips are still tingling from the pressure of Fenris’ kiss. 

“That really just happened, didn’t it?” he murmurs to himself. The only response he gets is the feeling of disapproval from Justice that confirms it. He’s not entirely sure how limited to Justice the feeling is. Maybe the disapproval is well earned, though who it should be directed at Anders isn’t sure. He did just kiss Fenris of all people.  _ Why _ had he just kissed Fenris? 

Why had Fenris kissed  _ him? _

And after spending the whole night looking furious with him too. Anders hadn't understood it then and he understands it even less now. He hadn’t expected their impromptu healing session to have solved all of their problems, it would have been naïve of him to expect Fenris’ entire outlook on mages to be changed through one act of kindness, but he’d wanted it to be acknowledged for what it was. At the very least. 

The way Fenris had behaved towards him all night had suggested he had no intention of doing that. But then the kiss... No, it’s no use. No matter how he looks at it, Anders can’t make sense of it. He can’t even make sense of his own reaction to it. Fenris had kissed him and he hadn’t even thought about it, he’d just responded. 

Perhaps Fenris didn’t hate him as much as he’d begun to think. So then, those angry looks: had they just been a cover? So the others wouldn’t find out? 

Has it  _ always _ been a cover? 

No. Surely not. Fenris had definitely hated him until recently. But even if that was changing Anders hadn’t got any sense from him that he had kissing on his mind.  _ He _ certainly hadn’t been thinking about it. Well, not much. 

No, this really wasn’t something he was going to make any sense out of any time soon. And in that case he probably shouldn’t keep standing like an idiot all alone on a dark Lowtown Street in the middle of the night. Even with the latest gang threat dealt with, that still feels like asking for trouble. 

It doesn’t occur to Anders to give chase and try asking Fenris what he was thinking. He's not sure if he wants to face it any more than Fenris does. Rather, he turns towards the Darktown stairway and heads back to his clinic to spend the night pondering the question on his own. 

He doesn’t mean to keep doing so quite so much over the following days. In fact, he tries not to. Justice, in particular, thinks he should write the whole thing off as a moment of madness on both their parts and focus on more important things. There are plenty to choose from between the Underground and the clinic. Letting himself be distracted by the puzzling behaviour of a moody, infuriating elf is not helping with either of those things. 

But he can’t quite help it. Because it had been a good kiss. Once they got into it. Fenris’ initiation had been rushed and awkward but once Anders had set the pace they’d settled into it and it had been far more enjoyable than he might have expected. Or perhaps it’s just that going long enough without any kisses at all will start to make anyone seem appealing. Even Fenris. 

He knows that’s not it. He can’t tell if Justice is more annoyed at him for trying to lie to himself or because he won’t stop thinking about it. Anders thinks Justice might be just as confused as he is. 

To the surprise of probably no one, the problem isn’t magically solved when he and Fenris see each other again. Unless both of them refusing to acknowledge that anything happened counts as solved. Which it doesn’t. Fenris won’t look him in the eye. That’s not unusual in itself but given the circumstances, Anders finds it all a little more pointed than usual. He’s still not sure how he feels about it. On the one hand, Fenris’ behaviour has been so completely all over the place that it’s frustrating to follow. On the other, whatever it is that’s going on here, Anders isn’t sure if he’s ready to deal with it either. 

Fenris is handsome, yes. There’s no point left in denying that Anders is attracted to him. But he despises everything Anders stands for. That’s going to be an issue and it won’t go away just because Fenris kissed him and Anders kind of liked it. 

They manage a couple of weeks without anything too out of the ordinary happening. Once they’re both confident that neither of them is going to try to broach the subject of the kiss, they relax a little. Not by much but enough to be able to work together without Hawke complaining about it. Anders doesn’t know what Hawke has to complain about. She’d wanted them to stop fighting and they can’t fight if they’re not talking to one another. 

But the first time they do get into an argument—about mages, what else? —Anders feels a certain sense of normality restored. In a way that makes him want to tear his own hair out in frustration. The argument ends with Hawke intervening. As she’s yelling something about “is it so difficult to just be bloody  _ nice _ to each other?” Anders glances up from where he’s scowling at the floor to find Fenris glaring right at him. It’s a first for the past couple of weeks but seeing it makes Anders very aware that there’s a difference in the way Fenris looks at him now. Some shift in the intensity there that tells him Fenris hasn’t forgotten about that kiss quite so thoroughly as he might want Anders to think. He wishes he could work out a bit more of what the elf might be thinking. Something tells him that if he tries to ask, he’s not going to get an answer. 

He puts it from his mind, as he’s had to do with the rest of whatever is going on between them, the attraction, the frustration, all of it. Justice is right in that he has more important things to focus on. 

The next time he sees Fenris, he finally notices that the elf is in pain. It takes him being injured in battle for Anders to realise it and even then, it’s not right away. It’s far easier to see the way he avoids putting weight on his foot. Fenris is clearly trying not to make it obvious but Anders saw him go down and is already looking for it. When he points it out, it looks as though Fenris would very much like to argue with the reminder that ignoring it when they still have a way to walk will likely only make the injury worse. Thankfully, he isn’t so far gone in his determination to ignore Anders that he can’t accept the logic in that. 

They’re on the road, already several miles outside Kirkwall, pulled over to the side where a fallen tree makes for a good bench. Fenris sits while Anders crouches next to him to examine the injury. Fenris frowns through the obvious pain but endures it. It’s only when Anders tries to check that he’s fully healed the sprain afterwards that Fenris pulls his foot from Anders’ grip much too quickly. 

“It is done,” he snaps. 

Anders can’t help how his first thought is to take it personally, to assume that Fenris is so against being touched by Anders his first instinct is to flinch away. He has to really push past the automatic hurt that inspires to consider the alternative and now that he’s finally looking, he doesn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him before. Perhaps he has his reasons for not wanting Anders near him in particular but Fenris has never liked being touched by anyone. And Anders knows the reason for that. 

Maybe by now it’s a habit or maybe it really is just Anders but he doesn’t think he should rule out the possibility that Fenris’ pain has returned. He’d known it might and he really should have checked in on him before now. 

“How bad is it?” Anders asks him. 

Fenris doesn’t look him in the eye and his response is what gives him away, “Do not concern yourself with it.” 

“Too late. You need healing, Fenris.” 

Fenris pulls stands, moving swiftly away from Anders. “We should move on,” he tells the others. 

Hawke looks uncertain. First at Fenris and then to Anders, “Are you sure? Is he fit to keep going?” 

“Do I look unfit?” Fenris snaps, riled by her attempt to consult Anders over him. “He concerns himself with things he shouldn’t.” 

“Hey!” Hawke complains, holding up her hands defensively. “I just don’t want you dropping dead on me. There’s no need to get snippy about it.” 

“I am fine,” Fenris insists. “We are wasting time.” 

He glances back, catching Anders’ eyes and his irritation is palpable. But Anders doesn’t flinch. He meets Fenris’ glare head on. “What I’ve done should be enough. For now.” Hawke is listening so that’s all he says on the matter but it should be enough for Fenris to know he doesn’t intend to let it go. 

He shouldn’t have ignored the situation in the first place. If he’d faced the problem head on, if he’d let himself pay attention, he would have noticed Fenris’ pain before now. As annoyed as he may be, he shouldn’t be letting his personal feelings get in the way of his work as a healer. 

Of course, Fenris isn’t going to make it easy for him. As soon as they get back into town, he splits from the group and heads back to his mansion. Anders ignores Hawke’s look of confusion as he makes his excuses and follows after him. 

“Leave me, mage. I do not need your help,” he says firmly as Anders catches him up. 

“Fenris. We have to talk,” says Anders finally, after weeks of pretending otherwise. There’s no point in doing that any more. It’s clearly not helping. 

“I have nothing to say to you.” 

“Whether I believe that or not, I have something to say to you. At the very least, hear me out. Then I’ll leave you alone if you still want me to.” 

The sneer Fenris gives him makes it clear what he thinks of that statement. “I doubt you capable of it.” 

Anders takes a large stride ahead of Fenris and rounds on him. “You kissed me, Fenris.  _ You _ started it. And then you clearly didn’t want to talk about it afterwards so, despite how much I might have wanted to know what in Thedas you were thinking, I let it go. That could have been the end of it. But now you’re hiding the fact that you’re in pain from me and I think it’s time we got some things out in the open.” 

They’ve stopped walking now which Anders takes for a good sign. It’s getting late and the streets of Hightown are far quieter than they were when they left this morning. Anders still feels a little too exposed for comfort but the lack of any immediate audience makes it easier. 

“Speak then,” says Fenris. “Make it quick.” 

Anders has to push back yet another wave of annoyance but he doesn’t let it distract him. “Whatever happened between us—however you feel about it—whether you want to acknowledge it or not, it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t withhold healing from you based on personal feelings. If you’re unwell, or injured, or if your markings are bothering you, I want you to feel like you can come to me. Even if you’re not up for magical healing, there may be something else I can do.” 

He doesn't know what to expect to that, whether Fenris will take it, or stubbornly insist he doesn’t need it. Or if the thought of accepting Anders’ help is so appalling to him that he would refuse it even as he suffers. The way Fenris has behaved, he wouldn’t put it past him. But instead, Fenris just looks at Anders like he’s attempting to puzzle him out. As though Anders were the one giving all those mixed signals just a few weeks ago. Though, for all he knows, maybe he had been. It’s not as though he feels any less confused about it than Fenris seems to be. 

Fenris doesn’t seem to have an answer for him. But he doesn’t try to walk away either. Anders decides to try. “How long since they started hurting again?” 

“Why are you so insistent on helping? You admitted to me yourself that it cost you something. But still you want me to believe you want nothing in return.” 

Anders frowns. “It that what this is about? You think I’m expecting some sort of repayment? Well, alright then.” No point in pretending he’d expected nothing when it’s been made very clear that that is not the case. “Is a little bit of common decency too much to ask in return? Maybe you could stop refusing to look at me when we have to work together. Maybe say hello once in a while.” 

That look on his face like Anders is such a mystery doesn’t go away. 

A thought occurs to him. “That kiss... that wasn’t because you felt as though you owed me, was it?” 

Fenris scoffs. “If I had thought that was what you expected from me, I would not have agreed in the first place.” 

“Of course. And I’d never... But I’ve got to admit, I’m still really confused about why. I know I didn’t exactly discourage it but it’s not as though I was waiting for it to happen. I didn’t expect any of it...” The arch of Fenris’ eyebrow is enough to make Anders realise that he’s babbling. “And this isn’t what I came here to talk about.” He sighs. “Look, it’s as simple as this: if you want me to heal you, I will. No strings attached. We can forget that night ever happened. The only thing I want is not to be treated like shit afterwards.” 

Fenris’ eyes fall away from his. Anders thinks he catches something like shame in his expression and for a moment, he wonders if the regret he sees with it is something Fenris has felt and managed to hide this entire time, or is he just now realising how his actions came across? 

Then Fenris says, “You did not answer my question... Why are you doing this for me?” 

“Because you’re in pain. Because I can help.” 

Fenris looks back at him and there’s that furrow between his eyebrows, that vulnerability in his expression that he hasn’t seen since the afternoon Anders had healed him back at the clinic. 

“You should say yes,” he prompts. “We know it works now. Unless there’s some side effect you haven’t told me about.” 

Fenris looks at him sharply. “Side effect? Like what?” 

“I don’t know. You’ve barely said a word to me since. If that wasn’t the case, I’d probably have more answers for you.” 

At last, Fenris looks resigned. He sighs, then tells him, “You asked when the pain returned. It was around a week ago. Maybe more. It came on gradually and worsened the more I activated the markings. However, it is manageable.” 

“You should have told me. We can do more regular sessions if that’s what you need.” 

When he speaks, it’s more quietly than before. He asks, “When?” 

“I have the mana, why wait?” 

Fenris looks up at him in much the same way he had that day several weeks ago when Anders had first crossed this line to help Fenris with his pain. Anders can only hope that this time it won’t end in him being shut out without a single explanation as to why. It’s not an appealing thought and part of him wonders why he’s being so forgiving when Fenris barely seems to regret it. Anders just hopes he’s wrong about that when Fenris meets his eyes at last and nods. 


	8. Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I should give a heads up that I might be kind of pushing it with the M rating on this chapter. I don't think what I've written actually counts as explicit so I've left the rating as it is for now but it's definitely a lot more mature than it's been so far. I hope it's alright and I've not misjudged that. And I hope you'll enjoy the chapter!

What is it about Anders that keeps drawing Fenris back to him no matter how determined he is to stay away? He wears the sort of know-it-all expression that has only ever been irritating the many times Fenris had seen him with it. But tonight, he can't muster up the energy to let it bother him. He doesn't know where all the fight has suddenly gone from him. 

“Unless there’s some side effect you haven’t told me about,” Anders says and Fenris jumps on it immediately because none of this has been normal and magic has already twisted so much of his life. Couldn’t it be to blame for these unwanted feelings too? No sooner has the thought occurred to him than it fizzles away again. To change someone's perception of another, to alter their feelings. It's all too obvious what that sounds like and Anders is no blood mage. Fenris believes that at least. 

Besides what purpose would this serve the mage? The offer of healing he could put down as a way to further his cause, to draw Fenris into it by demonstrating what he believes to be ‘good magic’. He had no doubt that Anders is trying to prove something but he doesn't believe that's all it is. He's known him too long to deceive himself. He's seen it all a hundred times before. This isn’t driven by the same righteous anger that fuels his cause. Anders just can't help himself. He is a healer through and through. He can't leave well enough alone in Fenris' opinion. But there is compassion in it. It’s just taken Fenris this long to see it. 

He could have given up on Fenris. He’s been given every reason to do so but he hasn’t. It isn’t helping with Fenris’ resolve. Every thought he has attempted to banish over the past weeks is threatening to return. He remembers what it was like last time and doesn’t know how to say no to it. 

They go back to Fenris’ mansion because it’s closer than Anders’ clinic. Anders must sense some of his inner disquiet because no sooner are they there than he turns, frowning down at him. “You haven't made up your mind about this yet, have you?” 

Fenris can’t quite make himself look back at him. “No,” he answers honestly. “I have not.” 

They’re deep enough into the summer months that despite the late hour there isn’t much of a chill in the air, the holes in the roof create enough of a draft that it’s worth lighting a fire. Fenris busies himself with this task partly to avoid having to look at Anders, but mostly for the very practical purpose of providing a little light in the dark room. He feels Anders’ eyes on him but is thankful that the mage does not offer assistance in his task. 

He is not so lucky as to get him to drop the subject. “What are the chances that you're going to run out on me again before this is over?” 

“That depends on how much you insist on talking.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right, a straight answer to a perfectly valid question _is_ too much to ask for, isn't it?” 

If Fenris then puts a little too much feeling into striking the blunt edge of his knife against the flint, well, at least it gets the job done. The warm glow of fire light fills the room when he finally turns to scowl up at the mage. He wonders once again what Anders is really getting out of this. Surely whatever satisfaction he gains from helping others can’t be worth going to this much trouble to help someone he doesn't even like. 

He wonders about that though. What Anders truly thinks of him. His behaviour is confusing enough that Fenris can't put his finger on it. More often than not, he is moody and sarcastic but every so often Fenris glimpses something softer, something caring behind it all. And of course, one thing he can’t forget is how when Fenris had followed that foolish impulse and kissed him, Anders hadn’t pulled away. Not just that, his response had been enthusiastic. He’d clearly wanted it. He’s tried not to think over this past week of how obviously Anders’ anger has been a reaction to being pushed away by Fenris. He hasn’t wanted to have to analyse what that could mean. But Anders’ impatience, whether it’s justified or not, irritates him now. He gives in to a petty impulse to push him further, thinking that Anders isn’t the only one with uncomfortable questions running through his mind. “You enjoy demanding answers from people don't you, mage? And yet you offer few of your own.” 

“I’m not the one dodging questions! Try actually asking a few if you want answers so badly.” 

He can’t make himself look at Anders but he speaks quickly before he can think better of it. “You act as though I was the only one who behaved unusually that night. You could have pushed me away but you didn’t.” He takes a breath then asks, “Why?” 

“I don’t know!” 

Fenris doesn’t have to look up to know how flustered the question has made Anders. It actually makes him feel better knowing he isn’t alone in the awkwardness he feels over this. He won’t give Anders the satisfaction of knowing that though. His only response is a quiet _'hmph'_ that implies 'as I thought'. 

Anders doesn’t appreciate this. “It’s been a while, if you must know. And you’re not terrible to look at. I could do worse.” 

That finally makes Fenris look up at him, appalled. “That’s it?” he growls. 

“Well, it wasn’t your sparkling personality,” Anders snaps back at him. 

Fenris doesn’t think he’s ever been prepared for quite how angry Anders has the potential to make him. “ _Venhedis_. This was a mistake.” And it has been. All of it. This is exactly why he’d been so determined to ignore these ridiculous feelings and keep at as far a distance as possible. Pain be damned. He lived with it before, he can keep doing so now. 

He hears Anders sigh. “That was uncalled for,” he amends—or tries to. Fenris is too angry to care. 

“You should leave.” 

“I spoke without thinking.” 

“Then go before you regret more than your thoughtless tongue.” 

Fenris would very much like to storm off but as this is his house, he has to settle for simply turning away so that he doesn’t have to look at the mage’s infuriating face. But Anders won’t have it. 

“Fenris, I’m sorry.” 

Fenris turns back to glare at him. “Why do you persist with this? You have your excuse to give up. Are you really so stubborn you won’t take it? Or are hopeless causes simply a preference of yours?” 

To his surprise, Anders snorts. “Perhaps they are... Look, I really didn't mean that. I know we don't get on but I’d like to think that we could. If we could just figure out a way of understanding each other. You know, like Hawke always says.” 

Fenris gives him a look of derision. “Hawke is an idealistic fool.” 

“Probably,” Anders smirks, “but I’m fairly certain that's why we both like her so much. So at least we have some common ground.” 

Fenris shakes his head. Perhaps Anders’ sudden return to smiles and glib comments should stoke his anger further but instead he feels it dulling and quickly being replaced by confusion. 

For a long time Fenris just looks at him. Then he says, “Tell me the truth.” 

He doesn't look away this time so he sees how nervous the request really makes him. But Fenris waits and eventually he gets an answer, “I can't make sense of it any more than I suspect you can. All I know is I can't stop thinking about you. For weeks now it's all I've been able to do. I don't want to go, Fenris.” 

As soon as the words are out of Anders’ mouth, Fenris regrets asking. If he'd only kept quiet then he could have kept pretending this was nothing. He might not have been able to ignore his own feelings but he might have fooled himself it meant nothing to Anders. That would have been enough. 

Now he finds himself saying, “It is not a good idea.” 

“I know,” Anders agrees. 

Fenris folds his hands into fists because even at his side he can feel them shaking. He doesn't know what to say but he isn't thrilled when Anders prompts him, “What about you? I know I said I wasn't going to ask but... to be honest, I wasn’t quite planning on saying any of _that_ when I came here either.” 

He doesn’t want to say it but Anders might have had a point earlier about his recent tendency towards dodging questions. And the way the mage is looking at him... He looks vulnerable, maybe even embarrassed. But he isn't running. Which is more than Fenris can say of any of his own behaviour since this began. 

“It is as you said. I don't understand it... I have never let anyone get too close. The markings...” But Anders knows about the markings. That, at least, he doesn't have to explain. “But when you touched me after and there was no pain... I've never felt anything like it.” 

Anders’ lips part as if he’s about to speak but no words come right away. Instead, Fenris watches as he licks his lips thoughtfully and then he has to look away, forcing back memories of what that mouth had tasted like while it was pressed against his own. He takes a breath. At last, Anders answers, “Uh, well, that at least I can help with. If you still want me to.” 

Weeks ago, Anders had stood before him in his clinic and asked him the same question and Fenris had been so afraid to say yes. Even more afraid of how he _wanted_ to. Enough that he’d been unable to walk away. Now, following so soon after that rare moment of honesty between them, it feels even more dangerous. This time for entirely different reasons. 

He thinks about saying no and telling Anders to leave. He could go on as he had before. Perhaps try to use his markings less. He’s a capable fighter even without them. 

If he felt able, he might laugh, thinking of all the things he has survived, things he’s faced whether it scared him or not. And the thing that has him wanting to flee, for the second time in as many weeks, is a mage’s offer to help. Not because he knows it to be a trap but because for once he believes it is genuine. 

For some reason Fenris cannot quite comprehend, Anders really does want to help him. But though he might not intend it as a trap, that doesn’t mean it isn’t one. That’s what Anders can’t seem to understand. Even if he tried to explain, there is little chance that he wouldn’t take it the wrong way. 

Fenris knows it’s bad because he’s still considering it. Just the memory of what it had felt like last time is enough that he’s thinking of reasons to say yes. Because even if he walked away now, he’d still have to see Anders, unless he planned to give up Hawke too—and then what would he have? He thinks of Anders’ promise earlier; the fact that Fenris had ignored him for two weeks and he’d _still_ offered to help. He hadn’t seen that coming. What else might he be wrong about? 

“Fenris?” Anders prompts and it’s only then that Fenris realises how long he’s been quiet, going over and over it in his head, despite knowing which way he’s leaning. After all, he’s already answered this question once before tonight. 

He looks up. Anders is watching him. The room is silent but for the low crackle of the fire in the hearth, casting them both in its warm golden glow. Anders’ expression is a surprising mixture of concern and... something else. Fenris looks into his amber eyes, trying to discern what it is that’s bothering the mage, why he looks so oddly vulnerable. It takes a while for Fenris to figure it out, to realise that Anders is afraid too. Fenris had insisted on the truth from him and he’d given it, put his feelings out there for Fenris to do what he will with them and now he’s afraid that Fenris will reject him again. 

It’s that realisation that makes up Fenris’ mind for him. For the first time tonight, he looks at Anders and sees him on even ground. Not someone to fear, just a man with his heart laid bare. 

Fenris swallows. “Yes.” He feels as though he should say more but he can’t make the words come. Instead, he pushes past those last shreds of trepidation and reaches for the buckles on his gauntlets. He slips off one and then the other, then thinks if he’s doing this he might as well go all in and takes off his breastplate and belt too. If this turns out to be a mistake, he’s already made it. His armour will offer him little protection now. 

Anders leans his staff against the wall near the hearth as Fenris takes a seat on the nearest chair. Neither of them speaks, which surprises Fenris. Anders is visibly nervous but that’s never stopped him talking before. Quite the opposite in fact. He finds a stool over by the table and pulls it over to where Fenris is sitting so that he won’t have to crouch on the floor in front of him. “So... like last time,” he finally says. Fenris nods. He flexes his fingers, willing them not to tremble as he offers his hands up to Anders to take. 

He’s had the thought of Anders’ hands in his, the memory of it, so frequently in his mind recently that he doesn’t even think to brace for the pain the way he always does when he expects to be touched. It’s not a terrible pain, though, more a discomfort. Just enough so that when Anders asks if he’s ready, Fenris quickly nods. Then the magic flows into him and the discomfort is gone. All he feels is the warm tingling sensation beginning where Anders’ hands touch his and spreading up along his markings to the rest of his body. The feeling of relief is so intense it’s almost too much. The temptation to close his eyes and sink into the feeling is strong. But instead Fenris looks at Anders’ face. His eyes are a rich golden colour in the firelight and they’re watching him back. They’re heavy lidded, as though the focus he’s giving Fenris is something he has to push to maintain while his attention is being drawn elsewhere. It’s at that point Fenris remembers what Anders had told him last time, about Justice and the way Fenris’ markings sang to him. The expression Anders wears makes sense. It’s easy to believe that he might be listening to some strange song only he and his spirit can hear. 

It had been off-putting when Anders told him about it last time. He hadn’t understood it and that only made the idea of what he wanted to do more uncomfortable to him. But all Fenris feels now is a sort of wary curiosity. It’s a distant feeling because everything else pales next to the intensity of Anders’ spell but the look on the mage’s face is enough to suggest that, whatever he’s feeling, though it may be different to Fenris’ own experience, it is no less intense. In fact, it looks blissful. And Fenris knows it because under the attention Anders is giving him, he feels the same. 

It goes on so long that when Anders is done, he wants to flop back in his chair and relax into the lingering feeling of warmth and relief Anders has given him. But he’s anchored in place, upright at the edge of his seat, by the mage’s hands in his. Anders blinks slowly, his eyes slowly regaining some focus, which he directs immediately towards Fenris, searching his face for any sign of discomfort. There is none to be found. Fenris feels nothing but light and warm. There is no pain where Anders’ hands touch his. When he tries to pull away, Fenris doesn’t think, he just holds on tighter, not wanting this point of contact to be lost. Not when it’s all he’s been able to think about for weeks. 

When Fenris resists, Anders stops trying to let go. Instead, he drops his gaze to their joined hands. Fenris follows suit and watches as Anders slowly slides his hands up along Fenris’ forearms. He doesn’t know how to tell him that it’s not enough. That he wants more. 

They’ve sat together in silence for so long that it surprises Fenris when Anders speaks, even if all he says is, “How do you feel?” 

Fenris nods, then looks up to find Anders looking back at him. “I am well,” he manages to say. He can’t seem to muster up anything more specific. 

Anders’ hands reach to just below his elbows before sliding back down towards his hands. Fenris still can’t tell Anders what he’s thinking but he shivers. Anders sees it and something in his expression says he’s figured it all out on his own. He lets go but Fenris’ disappointment at the loss of contact is short-lived. Anders reaches out for him. 

This time when they kiss it feels inevitable. Fenris might have been conflicted about that very thing earlier but he can no longer bring himself to care. He’s come this far, he thinks, he might as well get what he wants out of it. If there are consequences to deal with later, then he’ll deal with them. Later. But right now, he wants Anders’ hands on him, his lips moving against his. It’s a little easier to fall into a rhythm of movement with him this time around. Though it is perhaps still a little awkward, when he pulls Anders off his stool and onto the armchair with him, he’s so tall he has to bend to reach Fenris’ mouth. His knee comes to rest between Fenris’ thighs while he braces an arm against the back of the chair. Fenris has to arch up against him to achieve the contact he wants but even that’s not enough; when he’s thought about doing this, it’s not been with several layers of clothing in the way. He kisses Anders hard and then pushes him back. The mage looks down at him through eyes glazed over with lust. He blinks lazily at him for a moment then when he sees Fenris’ fingers go to his chest and undo one of the buttons there, his mouth drops open. 

“Oh, Maker,” he says quietly, his eyes locked on the movement of Fenris’ hands. “Are we really doing this?” 

“Stop talking, mage,” Fenris replies, somehow sounding far calmer than he really feels. “And lose the coat.” 

He worries for just a moment if he’s going too far, being too forceful. Then Anders chuckles and he relaxes. “I should have known you’d be bossy.” But he doesn’t look like he minds. Instead, his hands go to the buckles on his coat, quickly unfastening them and shrugging the garment off his shoulders. Either he’s determined to do the bare minimum Fenris asks of him, or he’s just very eager to get on with other things, because as soon as the coat is gone, he falls forward, pushing Fenris’ hands out of the way and taking over for him. Fenris can’t say he minds, as Anders unloops each catch and dips his head to kiss each bit of skin as it’s revealed. Fenris sinks back in the chair and surrenders to the feeling because this... this is exactly what he’d wanted, what he’d tried and failed not to let himself think about. 

Once the last catch is unfastened, Anders pushes the leather aside, letting his hands drag along his bared skin as he does. And it’s everything Fenris had thought it would be. More, even. His eyes open and he sees Anders looking up at him, watching his reactions play out on his face. He manages to look both fascinated and fairly pleased with himself at the same time. Fenris feels like he should say something but he doesn’t know what and then Anders urges him up to slip the rest of his leather armour down over his shoulders and that puts all thought of talking out of his mind. 

Anders kisses along his collar bone while lightly tracing his fingers up along Fenris’ sides in a way that makes him dizzy. It’s been several long minutes now since they kissed but he still feels breathless, lost in the feeling of Anders’ hands and lips trailing over his bare skin. He almost feels like if he could keep doing this all night, he would be happy. But only almost. Because he’s been hard for a while already and the tightness of his leggings isn’t making that particularly comfortable for him. There’s no chance Anders isn’t aware of this but he seems happy enough to ignore it for now. 

Fenris pushes a hand into Anders' hair and uses it to draw him back up to his mouth. He indulges in a slow but no less heated kiss until he can’t take waiting any longer and tugs at the hem of Anders’ tunic. They break apart and Anders helps to pull the shirt off over his head before tossing it aside. Then they stop for a moment, breathless. Fenris lets his eyes roam over the mage’s form and though it’s something he’s seen before, he at least feels that he can stop to appreciate it now. Fenris has moved forward, back to the edge of his seat and Anders is on his knees in front of him. The sight is made all the more appealing by how obviously Anders is in the same state as him. But though he’s clearly just as eager to continue, when Fenris’ eyes reach his face, he’s surprised by the look of open desire he sees there. He so used to seeing guarded looks from him, or anger, whenever it’s too much to hide. Which is often. Anders is someone who feels everything so strongly. The way he looks at Fenris now is no exception to that. 

He hadn’t thought it would feel like this, to have Anders’ eyes on him. He’d thought the idea of baring himself to someone else like this would be harder but instead he just wants more. He watches as Anders gets to his feet and then holds out a hand to him. After a moment’s hesitation, if only because of the unfamiliarity of the gesture, not because of any lack of desire on Fenris’ part, he takes it and lets himself be pulled up. Then they stand chest to chest and Fenris wants to press himself against him but is stopped only by the look on Anders’ face. He can’t get used to it, how there’s no hostility there. Instead, what he sees is a sort of curiosity mixed in with the obvious want he’d seen before. It’s oddly compelling. 

He expects Anders to kiss him again but instead, he speaks, “If we’re really doing this, perhaps the bed would be the better option?” 

Fenris nods. The question has brought him back to reality somewhat and he asks himself if this is something he truly means to go through with. No number of fantasies that he’s failed to push away each night can change what he and Anders have always been to each other. It had been true what he said earlier, he’d never let anyone close to him, not because he wanted them there. And is he now truly planning to change that for Anders? Simply because, inexplicably, Anders of all people, is the one he’s found himself wanting? 

Apparently so. Fenris turns and heads for the bed in the far corner of the room, pulling at the laces on his leggings as he goes. 

“Well, at least you’re eager,” Anders says from behind him. 

Fenris rolls his eyes. “What did I say about talking?” 

“If you really expect me to hold to that then you must realise there are better ways of getting me to shut up than ordering me around.” 

Fenris turns to see Anders smirking up at him from where he’s ducked down to pull at the buckles of his boots. “An interesting suggestion.” 

Even more interesting is the way Anders’ eyes follow his movements as he continues loosening the laces of his leggings. He thought he’d be more nervous but instead he likes the way Anders’ attention makes him feel. Being wanted by someone he wants in return is thrilling. Anders watches as he pushes his leggings down and steps out of them and he seems to be somewhat distracted, if the way he has barely made it out of his boots is any indication. 

Fenris raises an eyebrow. “Are you planning on standing there all night?” 

That seems to snap him out of it. Anders pulls at the boot he was halfway through removing and hastily starts on the other, stumbling a little in his eagerness to get to where Fenris stands waiting for him. When he hears Fenris’ snort he protests, “Hey! Now is not the time to start finding me funny.” Fenris simply smirks back at him. 

When Anders reaches him, he’s still wearing his trousers. Fenris dodges the kiss he tries to give him and points to them. “Those too.” 

Anders blinks at him in surprise, then grins down at him. “Really never thought I’d be in to the bossiness. Coming from you anyway.” Fenris tries to ignore how the smile makes something inside him flutter and tries to focus instead on the sight of Anders stripping down to full nudity. He barely has time to appreciate the sight before he steps towards him, pressing their bodies together. Anders cups a hand to the back of Fenris’ neck, whispering, “But I suppose sometimes people really do surprise you,” before tilting Fenris’ head up and leaning down to take his mouth in a kiss. 

It’s more than a surprise, the feel of Anders against him like this. His skin is smooth and warm in a way that feels delightful against his. The soft hair that tickles his chest and legs is pleasant enough but far less interesting than the hot length pressing hard against Fenris’ stomach. Without their clothes in the way Fenris doesn’t hesitate in resuming his task of pressing every inch of himself that he can against Anders. He doesn’t know where his reservations have gone. It’s hard to care enough to think about it when being touched feels this good. He directs Anders towards the bed and he groans but goes willingly. Then they fall into an imperfect but no less enjoyable rhythm of kissing and touching and sliding against each other, creating a delicious friction that fills Fenris' head. He can think of nothing but wanting more of this. 

Anders is so... He’s so... Fenris can barely think. Distantly, he knows that earlier, he had thought this inadvisable. If he could think beyond the dizzying pleasure of Anders’ hands on him, he probably still would. But right now, he doesn’t care about anything but that feeling. Any uncertainty is lost in those touches, in how his body responds to each one. It’s lost in the sound of Anders telling him how good he feels. The aloof confidence he’d tried to affect earlier has long been dropped but Anders is so eager for him, he barely seems to notice. When he rolls them over, wrapping long fingers around both of them, Fenris pushes against him, gasping and occasionally sucking little bruises into Anders’ shoulder. And he’s so encouraging, seeming to enjoy Fenris’ pleasure as much as his own. He coaxes Fenris into orgasm, whispering soft words of encouragement as he comes and Fenris can’t look at him, can only press his face into his neck, moaning quietly, because it’s too strange to think of how it all makes him feel. 

When the intense pleasure fades to a warm buzz that lingers under his skin, Anders is still stroking himself. Fenris knocks his hand out of the way and takes over. He rolls Anders onto his back, bracing himself over him and finally lets himself look into his face. He watches the pleasure play out on it with fascination. Rapt, he takes in the flush that has spread over his cheekbones, the swollen, slightly parted lips, the eyes that have gone dark with lust. The panting breaths and low whines and the way he says Fenris’ name like a plea, begging him for more. Fenris can’t tear his eyes away. He keeps watching as he drives Anders over the edge, until his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth falls open. The sound he makes isn’t loud, more of a strangled moan than anything else, but it makes Fenris shiver all the same. Slowly, Anders’ eyes open and the look in them is what finally makes Fenris dip his head to kiss him. 

Anders reaches up to tangle fingers in Fenris’ hair, eagerly returning the kiss. Their movements have slowed, lost some of their urgency but it feels just as good, if in a slightly different way. He feels tired and sated, not wanting to move an inch. He ignores the sticky mess between them in favour of kissing lazily, enjoying the slow glide of his lips against Anders’ and the feel of smooth skin under the fingers he drags lightly up and down Anders’ bare side. 

He doesn’t realise he’s somehow managed to fall asleep like that until later when he wakes. The only indication that Anders has likely done the same is how the fire has burned down to nothing, leaving the room lit only by the faint light of dawn. Anders is still here, but he’s moved from the bed, which is likely what has woken him. He sleepily watches the mage moving in the dim light to gather his things. It takes a while for him to realise he’s being watched. When he does, he looks down at Fenris with uncertainty written across his face. 

“Oh, you’re awake.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the loose strands that have fallen from his ponytail in the night. His eyes flick away from Fenris and then back again as though uncertain of where he should look. “I, uh, need to get back to the clinic. Have to open up soon...” 

Fenris doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say. His thoughts are still too muddled from sleep to even begin processing what happened between them. 

“Maker, this is awkward,” says Anders, which sums the situation up nicely. “Can’t say I’ve ever been in a situation _quite_ like this one before. What with it being _you_...” 

Fenris rolls his eyes and mutters, “Keep babbling. I’m sure that will help.” 

He finds the sound of Anders’ quiet chuckle oddly reassuring. But he still can’t quite tell what Anders wants him to say. If he’s hesitating because he wants to stay, or if he’s simply embarrassed to be caught running away. Fenris doesn’t know which he’d prefer. He feels as though he should know. Because his actions last night had been impulsive and foolish and something he will surely come to regret. But he can’t quite make himself feel that way now, with the memory of it still so fresh. It had been good, so good. And if Anders were to stop preparing to leave, come back to bed and continue what they’d started last night, Fenris doesn’t think he’d stop him. 

But he can’t seem to make himself ask for it. 

Whether it’s a convenient excuse or not, Anders probably really does need to go to the clinic. He’d taken the day off yesterday, after all and there will likely be people who need him. “Go, then. Open the clinic.” Then, perhaps due to some leftover impulsivity, he adds, “I will see you soon.” 

The faint look of relief that crosses Anders’ face is enough to make Fenris’ heart beat a little faster. But, again, he doesn’t act on the feeling. Shortly after that, Anders takes his leave and Fenris rolls over onto his side, pulling the covers over him and trying to ignore how much cooler the bed suddenly feels without him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [pinkfadespirit](https://pinkfadespirit.tumblr.com/)  
> Thank you for reading!


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